


in what distant deeps or skies

by unintelligiblescreaming



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ...sooort of, ...sort of, Action/Adventure, Alpha Dave and Alpha Rose feels, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Alternia, Arranged Quadrants, Dubious Morality, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Pale Porn, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Post-Sgrub, Rebellion, Slavery, Space Opera, Temporary Character Death, Worldbuilding, kanaya is a kickass insurgent leader with a chainsaw and a grudge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:37:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 127,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6573823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unintelligiblescreaming/pseuds/unintelligiblescreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terezi has a problem. It’s not the fact that she’s been assigned to a job that she isn’t trained for and absolutely despises, or the endless daymares that rehash how she and her friends died in the Game, or even the way the Game suddenly ended without explanation, leaving Alternia as if it had never happened and erasing the memories of everyone... except her. </p><p>No, her problem is one Vriska Serket: ten sweeps, freshly graduated, newly appointed Admiral of Her Imperious Condescension's Fleet, and (probably) the root of (the majority of) Terezi's troubles. And the nonsensical, confused palecrush is only making things worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (ARC I) — thy fearful symmetry

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be an angsty oneshot that i would never show to anyone ever, but then i came back to it like a month later and made it fluffy, and then it got angsty again somehow??? and then it grew a plot??????
> 
> also: the work's title, as well as all the chapter titles in arc I, are lines from the poem "tyger, tyger" by william blake. in arc II, which starts at chapter 10, the chapter titles are from "the old astronomer" by sarah williams. why you ask??? bc i am a melodramatic piece of crap who enjoys poetry references no matter how pretentious they may be, thats why

_The bloodstain spreads where the steel pierced her all the way through, and her legs, they crumple slowly. You hear her let out a little huff that might have been surprise and might have been fear—of course, it would never have crossed her mind that it could ever end up the way._  
  
_Neither did you._  
  
_You hear the little wet sound as your blade comes unstuck from her body, hear the soft crash as she falls to the floor. All you smell is the blood, sweet and cerulean, and—_  
  
Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and that didn’t happen.

None of it did. None of you played a game, and none of you split into teams, and none of you died on quest beds, and none of you met a group of strange aliens called humans, and none of them taught you that for them, a sweep and a half is called “three years.” None of that happened, and Vriska, she doesn’t remember the night she decided she could take on an unbeatable enemy and fuck the consequences, an she doesn’t remember the choice you had to make.  
  
Two sweeps ago, you were eight, and you blinked and suddenly had a second set of memories for the past sweep and a half. You remembered that when you were six, you played the Game, and you remembered a life between the ages of six and eight where that didn’t happen. It’s been two sweeps since that moment of remembering, and you shouldn’t have to remind yourself that here and now the Game doesn’t matter. But you are an idiot, so last morning you fell asleep without sopor, and you had some pretty fucked-up daymares.  
  
How precisely that led you to be standing inside Vriska’s respiteblock in the middle of the day, you’re not sure.  
  
There’s a thumbprint pad to unlock the door and numerous booby traps, just like all the nicer blocks on this transport ship, but you would make a very poor legislacerator if you couldn’t sniff out a few hidden sensors. Seems like they’re more concealed than usual—either she’s picked up some useful skills at the officer’s training academy or she’s threatened one of the lowblood technicians into rigging up a better system. (You briefly consider resetting a few of them to do something amusing and only somewhat physically damaging to whatever semi-innocent troll walked by, but your bloodpusher just wasn’t in it.)  
  
Her respite block is huge, of course. When the two of you were first shuttled onto this ship they gave her something appropriately sized for a blueblood recently accepted into the fleet and on her way to dock with Her Condescension’s personal armada, but naturally she demanded something “way less laaaaaaaame.” The commissioner had almost denied it to her out of spite, but he eventually recognized that Vriska was up for a command position and her being an annoying little shit was merely par for the course.  
  
You make sure your cane doesn’t make any noise against the ground as you make your way to the recuperacoon. You take a cautious sniff, half-hoping she’s awake. No dice. Besides, even if she was awake, you have no idea what you would say to her.  
  
You hear her make a snuffling noise, and a faint squelching as she turns around a little in the sopor. Sighing, you slip to the floor and lean against the walls of the recuperacoon, pulling your knees up. You have a scalemate tucked into one elbow, so you hug it to your chest and rest your chin on your knees. You’re tired, but you’ve spent whole days poring over law texts while running on spiked grubjuice and zero sleep.  
  
So you lay your cane across your lap and unsheathe the blade ever so slightly, because you did manage to get around the security system, and you’re sure that anyone determined enough to cull Vriska would be determined enough to do what you did. And that means you need to be on guard.  
  
Why do you even care? Vriska can take anyone on this ship. If they catch her by surprise she might lose an eye or an arm, but the poor troll who attacked her would end up dead anyways, and it’s not like she hadn’t lost eyes or limbs before. Hell, she’d died. Multiple times. She probably deserved it too.  
  
Well, keeping her intact is supposed to be your job. But there’s a limit to how much you care about that; after all, she deserved to die more than Tavros deserved to take a walk off a cliff, that’s for sure. But she’d paid the price for that stunt a long time ago. You’d made sure of it.  
  
So why is it her death that you can’t erase from your mind? The night you found yourself in an unfamiliar planet in the heart of the Alternian Empire with a new set of memories was the same night Gamzee murdered all of your friends. It’s not to say that you have completely forgotten that Karkat’s ex-morail picked up your canesword and stabbed him to death with it, and you have some pretty horrifying daymares about that too. Most of your daymares are about that night, actually—you haven’t dreamed about Vriska in perigees. But memories of Karkat dying don’t give you this weird, uncomfortable feeling that you can’t quite categorize.  
  
It’s not guilt. It’s not. It was something that had to be done. Besides, it was two sweeps since you woke up in the reality where the Game never happened, two sweeps since your eight-sweep-old self was handed doubled memories and forced to deal with a split-up mind. And she’s alive again. In your waking hours you rarely ever think about her death. This feeling is something else, and you don’t know what it is.  
  
It feels like the roles are reversed and this time you’re on the witness stand, and the prosecutor is raising a pointed claw as she pries into every little crack in your story. The respite block is dark and quiet, and the only sound is Vriska’s quiet breathing, and it feels like you’re on trial for a crime you don’t fully understand.  
  
You sniff hard, distracting yourself with monitoring any possible movement from outside. Nothing. There’s just the smell of blue, blue, blue clogging up the passages in your sniffer. Literally, the entire respite block is coated with bright cerulean. It’s possibly the tackiest interior design you’ve ever smelled, which makes sense, because Vriska designed it personally even though this was just a guest room which she was only going to occupy for a few nights. The design choices are not surprising to you—your superior tastes had never quite rubbed off on her.  
  
There’s a sloshing sound behind you, and you jump up just a second too late as a frond gets a grip of your hair and _pulls_.  
  
The wind is slammed out of your chest as you smash into the side of the recuperacoon. You wheeze for a moment and try to concentrate through the blinding pain of your _hair,_ she has your _hair—_  
  
“ _Another_ one? How long will it take you rustbloods to get it into your thinkpans that I—can’t—be—culled—that—easily?” Each word is punctuated by a slam of your nugbone, sending starbursts of pain down your spine.  
  
You snap your cane around. It hits flesh with a dull smack. Vriska screeches indignantly and the frond she has in your hair lets go. “Ohhhhhhhh my—”  
  
Suddenly Vriska stops. Then she says, “Holy shit, _Terezi?_ What are you doing here?”  
  
“Attacking a legislacerator of His Tyranny? That’s a cullable offense, Miss Serket,” you say, carefully lifting yourself up by bracing on the rim of the recuperacoon. You take inventory of all the various places that you are aching and carefully sheathe your canesword. “I considered waking you up via a thorough cane drubbing, but upon careful deliberation the court has decided to be merciful.”  
  
You take a sniff. Her hair is plastered to her skull, and it makes her seem smaller than usual. Her expression smells tired and annoyed. For some reason she’s still wearing her underwear, and you pity the poor chump who has to use the dirt-fabric removal machine after she’s put her sopor-soaked clothes through it.  
  
Then you remember what she said when she thought you were attacking her. You frown. “Has someone tried to kill you?”  
  
Vriska gives you a look.  
  
“I meant recently.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” she says. She crosses her arms and smirks. “Nothing I can’t handle, anyway.”  
  
You’re unconvinced. She hasn't been dragging corpses down any hallways recently—you would have smelled it on her—so that means they got away. Before you can argue, she grips your shoulders.  
  
“Listen,” she says. “You look like warmed-over shit. What’s wrong?”  
  
You shrug awkwardly. “Bad dream.”  
  
“About what? Waking up one night and finding your secret stash of red chalk is all gone, oh the horror?”  
  
The retort is weak compared to her usual fare, and that’s how you know that something’s twisted up inside her that she doesn’t want to talk about. You don’t say anything. Right now you’re just drinking in the slight chill of her palms on your shoulders, one metallic, one flesh.  
  
Vriska rolls her ganderbulbs at your silence. “Okay, fine, you don’t want to talk. Come on.” She grabs you by the waist and drags you over the side of the recuperacoon before you can react.  
  
You sputter as she slides in after you. “Eww, eww, Vriska, I’m still in all of my clothes—” You whack the side of her shoulder with your cane.  
  
“Wow. Just, wow,” she says. You smell her wincing as she touches her flesh arm. “I can’t believe I’m hearing that from _you_. Do you know that when you eat, more food ends up on your face than in your mouth?”  
  
“Lies and slander! Keep talking like that and you’re in line for another cane drubbing.” You set your cane on the rim of the recuperacoon and use your fronds to smear slime all over her face.  
  
“Urghh, don’t—I’ll smear your glasses, don’t think I won’t—” She snatches your specs and you hear the squeaking of sopor on glass.  
  
“Aha, Miss Serket, I’ve caught you red-handed! The evidence of your crime is right in your fingers. You’re under arrest for petty theft, casting aspersions on a legislacerator’s eating habits—”  
  
She lunges at you, dragging you under. You can hear muffled laughter through the spoor slime. You struggle against her tacklehold, finally emerging and gasping air. “Assault on an Imperial official,” you continue, kicking her in the stomach as she tries to grab at your sleeve. “Setting pathetically inadequate security measures—”  
  
“ _What_ did you just say?”  
  
You grab her legs while she’s distracted and she loses her balance with a squelching noise. “You don’t fight fair!” she complains, except she’s below the surface so it comes out like _Ooh oh ite air._    
  
You cackle. “What was that?”  
  
She bursts out from the slime and grabs you in a tackle-hug. “I said, you’re a smug little shit,” she says, glaring at you. You just grin.  
  
The two of you lean gently against the wall of the ‘coon. You’re both made entirely of elbows and bony bits, so the whole cuddling thing doesn’t work out as well as it could, but you manage.  
  
You sniff Vriska’s hair. There’s the scent of sopor and the color blue, of course, but she also smells like fear. Or maybe that’s just you. It seems like the more nightmares you have about her the more you stop being able to smell her properly.  
  
The sopor smells sickly sweet, like blood. You’ve been around a lot of blood, but you remember that cerulean is the sharpest and sweetest. Or maybe that’s just your fucked-up pan.  
  
It’s weird, being so quiet. You’re not a quiet person, and neither is she, and besides your interactions were all clashing and edged words and competition. You don’t know why this silence is so soft. It puts that uncomfortable twisted feeling back in your guts.  
  
 “You’ve been laying off the mind games lately,” you say suddenly.  
  
You suddenly want very much to bite off your own tongue. Why did you _say_ that, why did you _say_ that—your pusher speeds up and immediately you start calculating, you start picturing all of Vriska’s choices and thinking _if she chooses this, what does it mean, what is she thinking—_  
  
Except she just shifts, makes an awkward sort of _mmh_ sound.  
  
You wait. But that’s all she does. She smells like she’s maintaining a pointedly unconcerned expression, which is suspicious in and of itself, but it’s no comfort because of all the choices you’d mapped out for her, that wasn’t one of them. You couldn’t See that.  
  
Okay, if you’re honest with yourself, even while the Game was still a thing that was happening, you’d never been sure—not _really_ sure—if any of your predictions was actually you Seeing anything. It could just have easily been you being a calculating asshole who spends too much time hanging out with even more calculating assholes. Like the one whose respiteblock you practically ran to the moment you had a gogdamn daymare, a fucking _daymare_. No wonder  Vriska thinks you’re weak.  
  
_Well, she’s not wrong,_ says your nasty side.  
  
Vriska tugs on the collar of your uniform and pulls you next to her. She huddles into you, props a leg up on yours. You feel her breaths even out. She’s falling asleep.  
  
(See, the funny thing about your nasty side is you’re not really sure you have one. You’re pretty sure that you’re ninety percent nasty side, with an extra ten percent of JUST1C3.  
  
Then again you’re even more sure that Vriska is one hundred percent nasty side with a sprinkling of “fuck you!!!!!!!!” on top, so you suppose you’re in good company.)  
  
Hey, now she’s snoring. That was fast. You wonder if she intentionally calculated this knowing that you’re the kind of chump who would totally forgo sleep to guard her, and then you decide that you are—you were—a terrible Mind player anyway, so you should stop thinking about other people’s choices since it clearly never got you anywhere in the first place.  
  
You hold her until the clock changes from day to night.  
  
  
  
  
You receive a notification a few hours later, because unlike Vriska, you’re actually expected to get work done on the journey. That means you only spend a short amount of time making empty snide remarks and generally screwing around in her block before you go back to your room to retrieve your husktop. There are trolls bustling around—you wouldn’t have thought so, since it’s a transport and that usually means people staying alone in their blocks so as to avoid unknown and potentially threatening trolls, but you need people to keep the engine running and a pilot and someone to clean, too, so there are staff. They all have warmer blood than you.  
  
When you get back Vriska saunters her way towards you. “So what kind of boring paperwork are you doing?”  
  
“Imperial officials—or should I say of _fish_ als—” you start.  
  
“I’m convinced my ears will _explode_ if I hear another fish pun,” Vriska groans dramatically. “Almost every fucking email I get sent nowadays has a fish pun in it. Fucking finfaces.”  
  
“Fucking finfaces indeed,” you concur. Not only was Vriska sent to an officer’s academy where almost all the students had violet blood, but she graduated top of her class and somehow managed to snag a position as an admiral directly after graduation. You still can’t wrap your mind around it—when you opened that email that said you were posted alongside her, you hadn’t seen each other since you were six, and you still pictured her as a spoiled wriggler.  
  
In the memories where the Game didn’t happen, you and Vriska had parted ways when you were six. You hadn’t even talked when Conscription came for you both at the age of eight. It’s been four sweeps since you talked.  
  
(So either you picture her as a spoiled wriggler or you picture her lying in a pool of her own blood with a blazing sun on her thorax and wings crumpled beneath her.)  
  
You set your husktop aside and tell her about your assignment. “Imperial agents recently took into custody several aliens from a solar system at the outskirts of Her Imperious Condescension’s empire, which is still in the process of being brought under the empress’s iron-fisted and… wise… rule. Recently two separate battleships, the Bereefer—apologies, _Bereaver_ —and the Destroyer, have disappeared without trace while in orbit around the planet in question. The captured aliens appear to posses atypical powers for their kind which are believed to be linked to the disappearances, as well as to other disturbances during the conquering campaign. The doctorturer examination reports indicate that they’ve been unable to find a biological cause for those powers, and the full extent or nature of the alien abilities is not yet known.”  
  
“And why are you even involved with this? I mean, it all sounds _really_ far from your job description.”  
  
“I’m as lost as you as to why I’ve been asked to do this. But I would never question the orders of our glorious leaders, naturally.”  
  
“Hmm,” says Vriska, unconvinced. You remember that she’s supposed to be one of your glorious leaders—when you were younger, your governmentally mandated schoolfeeds would sometimes feature the faces of the Condesce’s top generals, accompanied by patriotic music from the empire’s most publicized pop singers. You imagine Vriska’s face in one of those schoolfeeds and your pan hurts a little.  
  
“Well, I suppose my legislacerative background may have been important. The briefing does seem to imply that a bit of a bad-cop-worse-cop routine may be needed if any knowledge is to be gained.” You grin, leaning forward on your cane. “My role in the investigation is vague so far, but I’ve been told to gain the aliens’ cooperation by any possible means so that their abilities may be made useful to the imperial fleet. They overcame a Mark I battleship’s shields with ease not once but twice—that sort of power in an enslaved species just begs for weaponization.”  
  
“That sounds awfully explosions-free. Booooooooring.”  
  
You can practically taste the string of 8 o’s in there. You give a little cackle-snort and jab her with the head of your cane. She dodges it successfully this time, then grabs a nearby chair and lobs it at you. You try to scamper out of the way, but you’re in a corner and it hits you on the shin. “Agh—Miss Blueberry, why are you so strong?!” You rub your abused leg. “The missive did say that after successfully securing the aliens’ good behavior, I am to develop a plan to demonstrate and test the abilities on a wide scale, which most likely will involve using it against whatever remains of the aliens’ planet.”  
  
Vriska perks up. “Are they the kind of aliens that fight back, or do they just sit there and let themselves be exterminated?”  
  
“Hmm.” You pause and scroll back over the message. A few taps takes you to a database, and you search the planetary coordinates. The report is short and cursory: planet similar in size to Alternia, species “somewhat troll-like,” with fewer natural defenses. “It says here that the end goal for the species is enslavement… and apparently it’s taken quite a long while,” you tell her, noting that the conquest is not completed yet, even though it began over five sweeps ago. “Either they’re putting up quite a fight, or the trolls in charge of the campaign in that sector are about to be culled for extreme incompetency under article V, chapter II, subsection XI of the Alternian military charter.”  
  
“So the alien powers involve exploding things in other aliens’ faces?” Vriska asks hopefully.  
  
“Perhaps. I’m sure they can somehow be rigged to an explosive missile system.”  
  
She tosses a fist into the air. “Yessssssss! So if the aliens are being kept with the empress’s core armada, what are you supposed to do for the next, what, eight night-day cycles?”  
  
“Researching the incident, I assume. I requested the mysteriously vanished battleships’ transmission records from the imperial restricted files several nights ago, but they haven’t come in yet.”  
  
You almost ask if she’d help speed the handover process, since she outranks you—but then the bitter taste rises up beneath your tongue again, and you can’t make yourself ask it.  
  
You tell her, “There are a lot of ways transmission data could be useful to the investigation. If the captives are not forthcoming after the traditional torture methods, it could reveal information that can be used to pry the aliens open psychologically. Additionally, if we gain a clearer picture of the incidents, we can form a better plan for their deployment. In investigations of this sort there are usually several hundred in total, subdivided into categories for audio transmissions (personal and official), chat client transmissions (personal and official), basic vital-sign monitoring data… I haven’t received the documents themselves yet, but I’ve already set up an organizational infrastructure so that when they finally send me the files I won’t be at a loss for how to start. See, if you look here—”  
  
“I stopped listening after ‘subdivided.’ How is it that I can hear the parentheses when you talk? Don’t answer that.” She gives you a sideways look. “Man, Pyrope, you haven’t changed at all. You’re exactly as weird as I remember you. Okay, so the interrogation and blowing-things-up part sounds kinda interesting, but the document-shuffling is really… not. Is the enjoying-paperwork-thing just a legislacerator habit, or—” She pauses. “Well, you’re not a real legislacerator. Oh well. My point still stands, because it is correct, and I am always correct.”  
  
“It seems that your time at the officer’s training academy didn’t go to waste,” you say lightly.  
  
There’s a slight numb feeling in your extremities, and you’re reminded that she’s right about you not being a real legislacerator. She is. Even if you don’t want to admit it.  
  
“Okay,” Vriska says, clapping her fronds together again. You catch a whiff of regret; it seems she is capable of telling when she’s upset you. You’re dully surprised she cares.  
  
“This was a good meeting. I feel good about this meeting. Now, you—” She points at you, as if there’s anyone else in the block. “—are going to concentrate and sift through all these miscellaneous files, and _I_ will be here too, to provide important leaderly advice and complete important and valuable leaderly tasks. Shall we?”  
  
You give a mocking half-bow from where you’re sitting; she giggle-snorts.  
  
Vriska’s talking to you as she pulls out an expensive palm husk and starts playing some tactical game on it, but it’s hard to pay attention. Her words keep returning to your aural shells.  
  
You should be used to it by now; she’s been your best friend since you were wrigglers, which gets sadder and sadder the more you think on it, and she’s the only one of your old twelve-troll cohort that you’ve talked to since Conscription. You’re used to her active attempts to break down the people around her.  
  
But… that’s not how she acts with you. In the few nights you’ve spent together after so many sweeps apart you are unable to categorize how she acts with you. Maybe it’s just that you’ve spent two sweeps with only the un-memory of how her blood smelled sickeningly sweet and how you failed, you _failed_ , the un-memory of how all your friends that you saved by killing Vriska—you couldn't save them in the end.  
  
For some reason you just can’t get used to how she casually tosses out words like dice, either unaware or uncaring—you’re never sure which—of how it could shatter you. You’re weaker than her. You shatter easily. You can glue yourself whole again, but you get easier to break every time.

 _You’re not a real legislacerator,_ she said, and she’s right. She’s supposed to be an admiral in Her Imperious Condescension’s fleet, and you’re… her second in command. _It’s a complex situation,_ is what you tell people when they bother to ask why you have a courtblock license in your sylladex and a noose for a belt.  
  
You care about Vriska because of what you did in the Game, regardless of how hard you try not to, and you hate her because of what she did in this world. The regret throbbing in your chest meets the bitterness coating your tongue and twists, turns poisonous. It knots in your veins, clogs your arteries.  
  
You went into legislacerator training and graduated a sweep early than the rest of your class, with honors too. The senior legislacerators bestowed upon you the noose that you now wear wrapped around your waist and sent you off to eagerly lick your screen every few seconds, waiting for that one message.  
  
Finally you got it—the notification arrived with a sound effect of showering confetti, even though you’d turned off your volume, and pulsed bright and fuchsia in the center of your screen.  
  
You had to carefully run your tongue across your screen several times, because you were sure you’d read it wrong.  
  
They didn’t assign you as a fleet legislacerator, or even a legal secreterrorist or something lower-down. Instead, you were cheerfully informed that you had been assigned as Chief Auxiliary to an admiral of her Condescension’s Fleet.  
  
You didn’t know what Chief Auxiliary meant, so you looked it up. Other words for it were Executive Assistant and Chief Adjutant, and then you realized it was a complex word for a commonly known position, the Second. It meant that you did all the things your superior was too haughty and superior to deal with, like doing the paperwork and guarding your superior’s stupid ass. All the work that a grunt couldn’t do but that wasn’t so important that it was worth bothering an officer.  
  
Apparently this was a sought-after posting. You were pretty sure it was just a glorified clerk.  
  
Oh, and the job description also said—to use the offi-shoal sand-ctioned language— _to prayvent your clam-manding offisher from goin into a krillin rage and by any means necessary, if ya know what I mean._ It was followed by a gif of the empress waggling her eyebrows suggestively.  It’s not like you didn’t know the facts that were being described already, but your face still burned teal and you had to shut your palmhusk out of humiliation.  
  
You wondered if the empire intended on leaving you any control whatsoever over your quadrants, or if every aspect of your existence was now wrapped up in your job. Then you considered your long history of colossal quadrant failures and wondered if you’d be culled for being a massive fuckup in your love life.  
  
Whatever. The job was created because virtually all officers that highly ranked were also high enough on the spectrum to be subject to rages. Vriska wasn’t exactly the most conciliatory troll in Alternian history, but she wasn’t on the verge of grabbing your canesword and going on a murder spree either.  
  
(You knew the smell of blood in both timelines, but where the deaths of this world fade easily, you’ll never erase the smell and the taste of Gamzee’s last murders. You could scrub your tongue ’til it bled and the taste of teal still wouldn’t cover up the smell of cherry red.)  
  
It turned out that Vriska personally requested that you be her Second. She hadn’t even bothered to troll you about it—you and her had not spoken for four and a half sweeps, not since Conscription day, and she just did it so casually, without even thinking. You didn’t know what to say to her. She’d done what she always does, ruin someone else’s life without realizing she had.  
  
You snap out of it just as Vriska is setting down her palmhusk. She’s just finished telling you something, but she looks perfectly satisfied with herself, so you guess it probably didn’t require any input from you.  
  
That’s when the conversation you had in the dead of daytime hits you. Your flap drops open, and you immediately grab your cane and swat her over the head.  
  
“Ow!” she complains.  
  
“You, Miss Serket, have some explaining to do. What’s all this about a recent assassination attempt?” Murder as a method of social and military mobility is common in all the training academies, especially the officer’s, but the way she’d said last morning implied that it had happened on this transport ship.  
  
“Ow,” she says a second time, rubbing at her right horn. “It’s _nothing,_ Pyrope, honestly, for someone so cunning you get so worked up over the most ridiculous things. Some lowblood got into my block, got after me with something like knifekind.” She pulls down her shirt and shows you a single cobalt-inflamed line across her collar. “Barely scratched me.”  
  
“That looks rather deep.”  
  
She scoffs.  
  
“I’m not joking—for all you know the blade could have been coated with a slow-acting poison. You should call for a mediculler.”  
  
“And how do I know it wasn’t them?” She rolls her oculars. “It’s not like I got a good look at the fucker before they absconded. I can take care of my own wounds, and it’s not like this is the first assassination attempt I’ve survived. If you think your little legislacerator’s academy was harsh you should’ve seen the officer trainees during finals week.”  
  
“What I’m concerned about is motive. I don’t see one.” She's already opening her flap, so you pause and acknowledge that “— _no_ , I won’t be _see_ ing anything, hardy har har. Listen, Miss Blueberry, there are plenty of reasons to knock off the hotshot blueblood who’s hiking to the top of the ranks where violet names are supposed to be, but there is significantly less of a reason for the attempted murder of a troll who has already been promoted to admiral. Especially since if you die and they find you, that’s a crime punished by culling, and even if they don’t find you there’s a high likelihood that everyone on this ship gets culled.”  
  
“For all we know it’s some grunt who’s gotten tired of mopping floors.”  
  
You frown. “I think that process is automated on ships like these.”  
  
She waves her fronds dismissively. “Do I look like someone who knows what low-level grunts do? No, no I do not! The point here is that sometimes people just hate you, because they hate you.”  
  
“While you are not the most adept at making friends, I still do not find that a convincing hypothesis. If they just ‘hate you because they hate you,’ as you so eloquently have put it, than they’re far more likely to spit in your grubjuice than invite a charge of first-degree assault on a blueblooded officer on their heads.”  
  
You shake your head and start pacing around the room, tapping your cane on nearby objects. (This may or may not be a habit you picked up from courtblock roleplaying in your spare time.) “It just doesn’t quite ring true, Miss—apologies, _Admiral_ Blueberry. There’s something else at play here.”

“Should I get our old FLARPing manuals out?” Vriska laughs, raising a brow. At least, she tries to—she quickly realizes that her facial muscles don’t work that way and then tries to act like she totally intended to raise both her eyebrows at one time.  
  
You allow yourself a brief smile. “I believe I have those somewhere at the back of my sylladex…”  
  
“FLARPing is a lame game for wrigglers that I totally left behind when I left the home planet, and obviously I haven’t been engaging in less physically intensive, online-based roleplay in the meantime, because that would be lame, and also because if you told anyone I would kill you.” She gives a haughty little cough, which by all rights should not be cute, but you’ve been awake all day and come on, it’s a little cute when she tries so hard to be important and admiral-y. Sort of. Alright, it’s just you that thinks that’s cute.  
  
“Ha! As if an about-to-be admiral of her Condescension’s fleet would ever involve herself in such a juvenile pastime,” you say. “You must know such feeble to attempts to distract me can only fail. I, Terezi Pyrope—”  
  
What you want to say next, half-joking, half-not, is: _I will find out who tried to kill you, and I will bring them to justice._ What you want is to say is, _I will hunt down the one who hurt you._  
  
But you’re not really a legislacerator. (You’re not really her moirail.) So you say, very anticlimatically, “I will contact the legislacerative division aboard the Condesce’s flagship. Hopefully they can begin the investigation as soon as we arrive.”  
  


  
You’re shocked when you get a response from the legislacerators almost immediately after you send the message, since usually complaints take nights or even perigees to be processed.

 _To: Terezi Pyrope ((Designation: Chief Auxiliary to Admiral V. Serket, Hemocaste: 00827F, Age: 10 sweeps))_  
  
_You4 complain+ ha2 been no+ed and will be formally inves+igated upon +he arriva1 of your +ranspor+  aboard Her Imperiou2 Condescension’s battleship. Your fil3 indica+e2 +ha+ you posses2 legislacera+iv3 +raining. If you could preserv3 any valuabl3 evidenc3 i+ a+ +h3 scen3 of +h3 inciden+, i+ would b3 much apprecia+ed._  
  
_From: Peikeo Mirkai ((Designation: Tertiary Legislacerator for Station 111683923, Hemocaste: 008080, Age: 12 sweeps))_  
  
You notice a postscript at the end: _You don’+ of+en find someon3 of our color in a posi+ion lik3 your2. Perhap2 a drink some+im3 i2 in order?_  
  
You wonder which quadrant they’re angling for—you can’t quite tell if the comment about your color and position is challenge or a compliment. It can’t be _conciliatory,_ since there’s no third person involved and everyone knows a Second’s pale quad belongs to the empire.  
  
You send back a cryptic message that hints at a positive future relationship, thinking that you might be spending a lot of time on the flagship. Besides, you have possibly made a mistake in cutting off contact with your friends from the academy out of shame, and it is probably best to have some points of contact outside of the world of Vriska Serket.  
  
The next thing you do is use your clearance as a registered officer’s Second to access the personnel files for every crew member and passenger above this transport. You ask Vriska what she remembers of the attack, and she grumpily admits she was caught from behind and only knows that they were a little shorter than her, with hair about to their shoulders, and that their skin was rough and warm to the touch, like a midblood’s or a lowblood’s would be. You filter for those characteristics (and don’t filter for a knifekind specibus because it was always possible that the would-be-murderer was disguising their real specibus with another). Then you take the shortened list and look for someone who looks like they could hold their own against the strength of a furious blueblood. You end up with seventeen names, make a copy of the list and download it, then send it to Peikeo Mirkai for reference.  
  
Vriska keeps rolling her eyes. “Terezi, you don’t have to track them down—I can fend for myself just fine.” She flexes her left hand, the sharpened claws glinting.  
  
“I’m having the real legislacerative team track them down, not me. And you shouldn’t have to defend yourself. That’s why I’m here.” Her dismissal of your attempts to keep her safe is something that hurts you, a lot, for all manner of boring, stupid reasons that you don’t bother to consider at this point in time.

Vriska laughs. “Man, so you’re supposed to be doing stuff other than coating everything I own in spit? Now I _am_ impressed!”  
  
This is immediately followed by you grabbing her shiny new palmhusk and slobbering over it as much as possible (it’s an unappetizing shade of grey) while also giggling, while she shrieks and tries to wrench it out of your hands. “Jegus _give it back—_ ”  
  
By the time it’s over her hands are coated in teal-tinted saliva, you’ve nicked your lip on her claws and the two of you have upturned three articles of furniture. “I don’t seem to recall our wrigglerhood campaigns including so much hive destruction,” you pant.  
  
“We spent most of our time either destroying other wriggler’s hives or talking on trollian.”  
  
“Isn’t ‘destroying other wriggler’s hives’ an approximation of your current job?”  
  
“Yeah, except on the scale of _planets!!!!!!!!_ ”  
  
“I’d ask how many exclamation points were there, but I feel the answer is self-explanatory.”  
  
You lay next to each other in a crumpled heap, staring at the ceiling and taking deep breaths. You’re more winded than she is; you’re unsurprised, considering her training academy’s reputation for harshness and cruelty. You wonder how she took to it. Did she try to rebel? That sort of thing doesn’t work with schoolfeeders as tough as the ones in that place, so with what kind of scowl did she scrape herself off the floor? How many of her classmates did she cut down to get to the top of the ranks? You don’t pretend to yourself that it’s not something she has done. It’s a valuable kind of training; what she did to trolls her age, she will do to civilizations. That is her destiny, written in the gaping blackness between the stars.  
  
There’s nothing else for you to do but to stare emptily at the ceiling. Vriska told you she spent at least an hour scrubbing her blood off the floor, so there isn’t any forensic evidence to collect for Peikeo Mirkai and the other legislacerators.  
  
The troll who got into Vriska’s block had to go past her security measures. When you snuck in you disabled half of them, including the thumbprint scanner, with a highly contraband modified imperial ID card that you paid a fellow academy trainee several hundred caegars for just for times like these. For a lowblood or a lower midblood to be in possession of that type of illicit technology meant perigees of planning and secrecy. This was not merely a random attack.

“It was planned, targeted, and intentional,” you say, breaking the quiet. “The culprit was specifically going after you, and they likely planned this in advance. That means they have access to the imperial tracking network, if they knew what transport was taking you to HIC’s armada. Have you pissed off anyone lately?”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“I mean more than usual.”  
  
“Not that I know of. I had a few spats with brinesuckers back at the academy, but most of them prefer to act like I’m too beneath them to exist rather than face me head-on. Such snobs, _ugh_.”  
  
You snort at the total lack of irony in her statement. “What?” she demands, and you poke her. She jabs you under your ribs.  
  
You continue, “I’d put this down to a warmblood assassin hired by one of your old schoolfeed pals, but that doesn’t make sense. If they wanted you dead they’d have done it during training, while recruits culling recruits out of idiotic revenge cycles is merely par for the course rather than an actual crime.”  
  
“I haven’t pissed off any dirtbloods enough to warrant a revenge cycle—the only trolls that were lower than violet were blueblooded slaves. And me.”  
  
Her mouth twists, and you can see the bitterness in her, product of the pride that’s welling up below her skin. That bitterness and pride has its twin within your body. It lurks in a dark knot under both your pairs of lungs. It’s the reason lashes out so casually and cruelly at people, all these dark, knotted-up fears, these fears in both her pusher and yours.  
  
Wow, you really have to stop being so maudlin all the time. It’s wrigglerish.  
  
Then she flashes you a smile. “Besides, Pyrope, there’s no revenge _cycle_ going on here if I don’t know who did it, and anyways you’ll probably drag them to ‘justice’ before I can get my hands on the asshole.”  
  
“I feel that this is an appropriate time to make a remark about how I’m not sure I _see_ your point.”

“That’s just weak,” she scoffs.  
  
“Are you maligning my sense of humor, Admiral Serket?”  
  
“Are you questioning me, Second?”  
  
There’s a pause. She’s joking when she says it, her trap is grinning and there’s a smile in her voice. Objectively speaking, you know it's a joke and that there's no more malicious intent behind it than is standard for anything that Vriska says. Nevertheless, you quite suddenly no longer feel in a joking mood. You smile in a neutral, not-very-nice way.  
  
You can tell by Vriska’s hesitation that she’s regretting what she just said. _Regretting her actions? That’s a new one,_ you think nastily, and don’t even pretend that your nasty side is unjustified here.  
  
You want to ask her: _did it ever occur to you that I might not want to be your glorified secretary?_ But you don’t.  
  
Habit tells you to crack a joke, defuse the tension, change the subject and act as if the problem isn’t there. But you don’t do that either.  
  
“Look,” says Vriska, voice sour, and who would have thought that someone as blunt as her could read another person, other than to pick out their weaknesses and pry them open with a knife? “I wouldn’t have wanted you as a Second if I knew you’d get your little _feelings hurt_ about it.”  
  
You’re trying not care, but you do, you do, you always have and always, always will. She keeps going. “They asked me if I had a registered moirail, I asked why, they told me if I had one that was qualified, they’d make them my Second. I’m cobalt, not sea salt fucking purple—I’m not some desperate fuck who needs conciliation from a stranger who gets paid to do it. If I’m gonna have a Second, they’ll need to do a whole lot more than just avoid stabbing me in the back first chance they get. They’ve got to be strong enough and smart enough to keep up with me. So I wrote down your name.” She narrows her eyes at you. “Are you, or are you not, up to the challenge?”  
  
Ice is in the blood vessels of your fingertips, numbing them, clotting the arteries. “I am here because the empire commands it. I am not five sweeps old, your _challenge_ does not interest me.”  
  
You sit up, take your cane, and walk to the door.

“Yeah, go ahead, run,” she spits at your back. “Finally, something you’re fucking competent at.”  
  
If you were thinking clearer you would realize that she's just reaching wildly for ways to get under your skin, but you're not thinking clearly. She is utterly, completely correct, even though she doesn’t remember the Game enough to know precisely correct it is.

You close the door behind you. The corridor is cold.  
  
  


 

\-- admiralGrandstander [AG] began trolling  gallowsCalibrator [GC]--  


AG: Hey.  
AG: Are you there?  
AG: ::::(  
AG: For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.  
AG: I get why you’re mad, and I guess I didn’t really think a8out how this would affect you.  
AG: They just handed me a form and I filled it out.  
AG: W8w, that sounds so much worse now that I’ve typed it out.  
AG: ….  
AG: ……..  
AG: …………….  
AG: ……………………  
AG: Huh, I guess you didn’t 8other to change your handle.  
AG: Stiiiiiiiill ignoring me? Fucking fine. Go run. I don’t know what I fucking expected.  
GC: NO  
GC: 1 4M NOT RUNN1NG  
GC: 1 4M M3R3LY R3MOV1NG MYS3LF FROM YOUR PR3S3NC3 B3C4US3 TH3R3 4R3 L4WS 4G41NST DO1NG R34L PHYS1C4L H4RM TO ON3S COMM4ND1NG OFF1C3R  
GC: 4ND YOU 4R3 NOT 4POLOG1Z1NG B3C4US3 YOU 4R3 SORRY, YOU 4R3 4POLOG1ZING B3C4US3 YOU W4NT M3 UNTH1NK1NGLY, UNQU3ST1ON1NGLY D3VOT3D TO YOU  
GC: 4ND 4NY SORT OF R34L 4NG3R FROM M3 W1LL COMPROM1S3 YOUR L1TTL3 PL4N  
AG: What??????? I don’t want you to never question me, o8viously. That would 8e 8ooooooooring. It’s not like I’m wrong often, but you can’t just agree with everything I say or we’d never get anything done.  
AG: I want a partner, not a slave. Come oooooooon, Terezi.  
AG: I’m reeeeaaaally sorry I was mean to you.  
AG: I’ll freely admit I’m not the 8est at acknowledging when I’m wrong, 8ut I’m trying, okay?  
AG: Ugh, why is it so hard to convince you of this.  
AG: When is the last time you’ve seen me apologize to anyone?  
GC: M1SS BLU3B3RRY TH4T 1S NOT 4 PO1NT 1N YOUR F4VOR  
  
It’s been a few hours. The numbness has abated (a8ed? ab8ed?) somewhat. You’re still pissed at her, but it’s the same kind of pissed that’s been bubbling inside you for perigees.  
  
She is, quite simply, lying when she says that she’s sorry you’re her Second. She’s smart in a manipulative way, her first thought is always for herself, and she uses people as tools, because that’s what she’s always done to keep herself alive. You are, in the end, just another tool. That’s not something you want to be true, but it’s something that _is_ true, and the way you dealt with it in the past was by pretending that you do not care about her.  
  
You did that during the Game, and you killed her because you had to, and you spent a sweep and half on the meteor forgetting her. And engaging in some weird love triangle hoofbeast shit with Dave and Karkat, and then making out with a murderous clown, _urghh._

When you think about the twisted-up ache you have for her, you think you want to protect her, murmur you daymares into her shoulder, have her tell you you’re safe, stroke her hair till she sleeps. You think of so many nights spent alone on a meteor, and your friends tried as best they could, but there has been a Vriska-shaped hole in you for sweeps and sweeps.  
  
You are what killed her, but she battered and bent you into edges, into sharpness, into a weapon. And she had the gall to look _surprised_ when your blade pierced her skin.  
  
You're in that weird place in your pan where you simultaneously want to scream and sob, except what you're actually doing is sitting stone-still against a wall. She wants you as the loyal sidekick. Again. As if that could ever end well for you.  
  
The knowledge that she will never truly give a damn about you is not what hurts you, even though it’s hurt you for sweeps. Right now, there are teal tears running down your face because you’ve been dancing around pale since you boarded this ship, and you are stupidly, stupidly hoping that she wants you as her Second because she wants you in diamonds.

In a lot of ways your situation is—is—there’s just something ridiculously romantic about it, about Vriska still trusting you _that much_ after so many sweeps apart. It’s a level of cheesy romance found only in the kind of cheesy, poorly written romance novels that Karkat liked to read.  
  
You don’t know if your feelings stem from your memories of the Game or your wrigglerhood together or from how lost and lonely you are, without the echoing halls and polished floors of courtblocks and the legislacerators’ halls, but you do know that there’s an ache in your thorax that wants to burst with every line of cerulean text that scrawls itself on your screen.  
  
In theory your newly assigned profession presents a perfect opportunity to ignite a budding romance. There are entire pale porn film franchises based around the position you currently find yourself in. But the truth of the matter is that this is _Vriska Serket,_ and even if you are in diamonds together, you can’t bring yourself to hope that—that she would—that she could ever really—  
  
(But you want to try. Oh god you want to try. The ache is eating at your insides and you want a cool touch on your skin, you want her there, and you are crying and aching and you want her so bad.)  
  
Well, it’s not like this situation is going to disappear any time soon.  
  
You snap out of it an hour later. Your fronds are still shaking a little, but you pick up your husktop anyway.

GC: TO B3 CL34R, 1 4M ST1LL 4NGRY 4T YOU   
GC: 1 4M SO 4NGRY TH4T MY 3XTR3M1T13S 4R3 TR3MBL1NG. 1 CURR3NTLY C4NNOT 1M4G1N3 TH3R3 1S 4 S1NGL3 UN1V3RS3 1N WH1CH 1 4M MYS3LF W1THOUT B31NG 4NGRY 4T YOU   
GC: YOU C4NT JUST B3 SORRY 4BOUT RU1N1NG P3OPL3S L1V3S YOU KNOW   
GC: YOU H4V3 TO 4TT3MPT NOT TO DO 1T 1N TH3 F1RST PL4C3   
AG: Okay, okay, I get the point, justice is a thing I should 8e paying attention to, 8lah 8lah 8lah. Are you accepting my apology yet????????  
GC: NO  
GC: W3V3 B33N OV3R TH1S S3V3R4L T1M3S NOW VR1SK4  
AG: W8w, what a flash8ack, you’re maaaaaaaad at me and won’t t8k “sorry” for a answer. Feels just like old times.  
AG: ::::P  
GC: 1 4M UNSUR3 HOW 3X4CTLY YOUR R3F3R3NC3 TO 4 R3V3NG3 CYCL3 1N WH1CH YOU BURN3D OUT MY G4ND3RBULBS W1LL H3LP YOUR C4S3  
GC: NOR 4M 1 SUR3 OF TH3 PURPOS3 OF TH3 SM1L3Y F4C3 YOU H4V3 4FF1X3D TO TH3 3ND  
AG: 8oy did this convers8tion get annoying fast. Why am I talking to you again????????  
GC: GOOD QU3ST1ON  
GC: L3TS 3X4M1N3 TH3 3V1D3NC3 4T H4ND SH4LL W3  
AG: I’m listening.  
GC: W3 ST4RTED OFF TH3 N1GHT W1TH M3 CR4WL1NG TO YOU 4BOUT 4 D4YM4R3  
GC: 4ND TH3N YOU PUNCH3D M3  
GC: 4ND TH3N W3 CUDDL3ED 1N YOUR R3CUP3R4COON D3SP1TE OUR MUTU4L L4CK OF 4NY PROP3R NON-BONY FL3SH OR OTH3R 4PPROPR14T3 CUDDL1NG 3QU1PM3NT  
GC: 1 GU4RD3D YOU WH1LE YOU SL3PT, WH1CH 1 M4Y 4DD W4S QU1T3 4N ORD34L CONS1D3RING HOW LOUDLY YOU SNOR3  
GC: 4ND TH3N 1 GOT 4 H34D ST4RT ON HUNT1NG DOWN TH3 TROLL WHO HURT YOU  
GC: 1 ST1LL TH1NK YOU SHOULD G3T TH4T CUT 3X4M1N3D BY TH3 W4Y, YOUR3 NOT G3TT1NG OFF TH3 HOOK 4BOUT TH4T  
GC: OH 4ND TH3N 4FT3RW4RDS W3 SHOUT3D 4T 34CHOTH3R  
GC: 4S YOU C4N S33 W3 4R3 4MPLY CUT OUT FOR MO1R4LL3G14NC3  
GC: <>  
  
There’s a long pause. If she doesn’t answer you are feverishly certain that you are going to reach through the screen and strangle her from the other side of the ship.  
  
GC: …  
GC: W3LL?  
GC: >:?  
AG: W8  
AG: What????????  
AG: ????????  
GC: 4DM1R4L VR1SK4 S3RK3T OF TH3 GLOR1OUS FL33T OF H3R 1MP3R1OUS COND3SC3NS1ON  
GC: M1SS BLU3B3RRY  
GC: TH1S 1S 4 L1M1T3D T1M3 OFF3R 4ND 1T W1LL NOT H4PP3N 4G41N  
GC: 1 W4NT TO B3 YOUR NON-1MP3R1ALLY-S4NCT1ON3D MO1R41L  
GC: NOT YOUR S3COND OR YOUR CH13F GLOR1F13D S3CR3T4RY W1TH 3M3RG3NCY SHOOSHP4PP1NG 4B1L1T13S  
GC: YOUR MO1R41L  
GC: 1M 4LSO GO1NG TO N33D 4 R3PLY V3RY SOON B3C4US3 OTH3RW1S3 1 TH1NK 1 M4Y VOM1T  
GC: VR1SK4?  
AG: <>  
AG: O8viously.  
AG: Took you long enough. I was wondering when you were a8out to catch on. ::::)  
  
Oh my gog she's trying to be suave. You're going to kill her. (No you're not.)  
  
GC: OH HON3STLY YOUR3 1NSUFF3R4BL3. WHY 4M 1 DO1NG TH1S 4G41N?  
AG: 8ecause I’m hot shit!!!!!!!!  
AG: Also, as a fair warning, I’m heading over to your 8lock and I’m 8ringing stuff for a pile.  
GC: 4 B1T FORW4RD DONT YOU TH1NK  
GC: 4LSO PL34S3 N3V3R C4LL YOURS3LF HOT SH1T 3V3R 4G41N 1N TH3 CONT3XT OF 4 GUTWR3NCH1NGLY T3RR1FY1NG ROM4NT1C CONF3SS1ON  
AG: Aaaaaaaahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!! You’re waaaayyyy tougher than that, even if you don’t really think you are. If I still know you, and I know I do, you’ve pro8a8ly convinced yourself you’re way weaker than you actually are.  
AG: Trust me, I don’t make friends with weaklings. If this whole thing counts as gut-wrenchingly terrifying I’ll choke on my own dice.  
AG: See you soon, Pyrope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is kinda jumpy, but oh well, that's what fanfic is for, right??
> 
> the good news is that i've already written the second chapter and i'm working on the third. (i mean i guess that's only good news if you think this is worth reading, but still.)


	2. in what furnace was thy made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh im sorry? did you want *plot*??? ok i must have misheard bc i got you vriska backstory instead. here it is. there is so much of it
> 
> next chapter will be more plotty, i promise. (i've got it all written out, but i'm waiting until sunday 4/30 to post it because i want to establish a writing buffer for myself, and also because i am evil. i'm currently busy working on chapter four, which is sooo much fun you have no idea)
> 
> @anyone who has "tyger, tyger" memorized: yes. you're right. this week's chapter is not *exactly* the line from the poem, i changed it v v slightly so it sounded better out of context
> 
> also, on a more serious note—WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: heavily graphic violence, discussions of slavery, fucked-up and extremely morally dubious thinking, and... vriska. also, from this point onward, be prepared for major characters to die temporarily (godtier stuff woo) and less major characters to die permanently, because i won't be putting it as a warning for specific chapters because it's so spoilery.

**(sweeps in the past, but not many)**

 

  
Your name is Vriska Serket, and when you were a wriggler you never cared either way about the hemocaste system, but you are starting to. Oh yes, you are starting to.  
  
Right now your classmates are having a class on three-dimensional improvised tactics for leading large groups of trolls. It takes place underwater, because of _course_ all your fucking classmates have gogdamn webbed fins attached between their fucking fingers. The schoolfeeders excused you from that particular class, to the undisguised sniggering of your fellow students.  
  
Fine. Just fucking fine. You arrived at the most prestigious officer’s academy in the Alternian empire three nights ago, and you already know you’re going to be the smartest, fastest, cruelest one there.  
  
So what if no one can match a seadweller’s muscles? You’re not spending your free hour sitting on your ass, you’re having it out with a dummy in a practice block with a holographic interface optimized for strength training.  
  
The thing about seadwellers is that they’re complacent. They’re so secure that the royal violet blood in their veins and their placement in this academy guarantees them a plush velvet seat wherever they’d like that two thirds of them don’t even bother looking out for potential threats. You’re not like them. You’re better. You’re going to win.  
  
You’re not gonna lie, it was hilarious when you got to your first schoolfeed and the first thing the feeder did was tell the class to get down and do a hundred pushups. Half of their mouths flopped open like fishes, speechless, and the other half complained that their clothes would get crumpled if they did something so dirty and undignified.  
  
_Oh, and that’s another thing,_ you think as your fist connects with the dummy’s thorax so hard it splits the leather. _I am so, so fucking done with ‘annoyin sead-wuh-well-ah’ accents all over the place. Would it kill them to borrow some terminal g’s? Or to say a sentence without warbling a V or a W? Or inserting a nautical pun. I am so incredibly over nautical puns._ Wow, you never thought you’d be grateful for Peixes’ high-pitched, dragged out “—EEE!” syllables, but at least they covered up the thread of sea twang in her voice.  
  
Speaking of your old cohort, you wonder how Ampora would’ve reacted in a place like this. You grin. He’d probably expire out of affronted snobbery the first night. Maybe even the first hour.  
  
One last kick and the dummy rocks back and falls over, parting with the plinth fastening it to the ground. You fall back, breathing heavily, and mutter a vocal command. Immediately a small army of minuscule repairgrubs crawls out from hatches in the floor and gets to work on the dummy, repairing it for your further abuse. You take a look at the stats the interface provides for you and allow yourself another little smile. You’re improving, if slowly.  
  
Leaning against the wall, you remember the incident weighing on your mind. You dragged yourself out your sopor after a day tossing and turning, spent a minute and a half in the ablutions trap—no, the _bathroom_ , you promised yourself you’re going to clean up your speech even if you’re not adopting some stupid seadweller lilt—and headed out for the evening meal. The moment you walked into the meal room (not ‘mealblock’), some asshole with lopsided horns and a natural sneer gave you a sparing glance and said, “Go get me a cup a coffee, willya?” And then he turned back to his asshole friends and sniggered something about how “the help gets scrawnier every day.”  
  
You sank your claws into his fin, and you _tore._  
  
His shriek was high-pitched and _so satisfying_. “ _Ggghhhhhh_ —what the _shit—_ what the fucking shit do you think you’re—”  
  
His words devolved into pathetic pained mewling. He staggered and clutched the bloody mess that used to be his fin, fingers shaking, dripping violet sludge.  
  
There was a moment of shocked silence where his friends couldn’t seem to choose between laughing at him or aggressing against you. Then one of them stepped forward, swordkind materializing in her hand.  
  
“Just who the hell do you think you are? You’d better learn to mind your—your—” Her words dissolved into fury and she hefted the blade.  
  
You took a good look at her to size her up, and then you noticed _it_. You let yourself laugh, loud and obnoxious, not even bothering to pull out your strife specibus—because the fins fluttering angrily on either side of her face were just a _bit_ too small to be normal.  
  
“Yeah, I’ll bet you’re mad,” you gasped, shaking with laughter. “‘Cause your color’s a shade too blue for your little pals over there, isn’t it? You’ve got a hint of indigo! What’re those fins on your face, papier-mâché?”

With that she roared, an honest-to-goodness outright roar, and tried to rush you. She was way too angry to be thinking clearly, so you dove to the side and swept her legs out from under her with ease. (But not without discomfort, because _ow_ seadwellers have tough muscles. It was like grappling with a steel bar.)  
  
You were about to go in for another strike when a different hand picked up like you weighed nothing and smashed you against the wall.  
  
Bright spots danced across your eyes as you slowly slumped to the floor. Through the pained blurriness you saw a schoolfeeder with a pissed-off slant to her mouth do the same to the almost-barely-a-seadweller who attacked you.  
  
“Back off, you idiotic little grubs,” she hissed to the room at large.  
  
Fearful silence reigned. You were all still fresh off Alternia, unused to seeing an adult of any kind, let alone a furious one. But this schoolfeeder just looked kinda annoyed and bored, like she’d already written you all off as insignificant in her pan. (In her _mind_ , ugh.)  
  
“Now in this place, we won’t be denying you the sanctity of _vengeance_ ,” she said, letting that last word go long and drawling, coated in venom and briny twang. “Nor are we inclined to deny you your empress-given right to bash out each other’s brains. But you will not— _ever_ —do it in front of a feeder, or disturb our meals with it, or drip your disgusting wriggler blood all over our floors. Do—you— _understand_?” She cast a look at the both of you. You nodded grudgingly.  
  
Now, as you examine the repairgrubs patching up the heavy leather dummy, you think about how hilarious violetbloods are, how they hold on to the caste system as a means of validation. It’s going to make them so easy to manipulate, even without using your powers.  
  
When you first stepped off the ship onto this desolate planet at the edge of the galaxy, the feeders sternly instructed the group that your fates at the end of your sweeps of training would be determined by your ranks. A rank relies relies on how well you do in each class, but that’s not just a grades thing—it means everyone _knows_ you’re the best. Your rank was abysmally low when you got here because of your blood, but the sea dweller whose fin you tore off and the seadweller who got decked when she tried to rush you are already being factored in.  
  
The guy who’s now missing a fin just got docked a few ranks, and you’re pretty sure he’s going to go after you when he comes back from the tactics class. You situate yourself just outside of the door and wait, patient as a spider. (There’s no one there to see you giggling at your own mental simile.)

Aaaaaaaand… you’re right, as per usual! He slouches through the door, dripping wet with a soggy bandage over the right side of his head, and the moment he sees you he goes for his weapon.  
  
Your regulation sword is buried in his stomach long before he gets there.  
  
You scowl at the heavy resistance his flesh poses (lowbloods are a _lot_ easier to carve) and grunt as you jerk the blade up and to the side, completely gutting him, before yanking the sword back out and captchaloguing it.  
  
He crumples the floor. You nudge at him with a boot, and… yep, his eyes are corpse-glassy and bulging like a fish. You look up and notice that a feeder is leaning against the doorway and giving you a bored look. “You have the first kill of the cohort, Trainee Serket,” she says. “Congratulations."  
  
“Thank you. Is there any makeup work I need to do?” you ask innocently.  
  
“Trainee Verrel, give her the assignment.”  
  
Trainee Verrel raises an eyebrow disdainfully, but pulls out a waterproof palmhusk and shuffles in your direction regardless. He shoves it into your hand. “Here. Good work there, by the way, that guy was so annoying,” he mutters.  
  
You skim through the assignment scribbled on the palmhusk’s screen while you’re walking along with the rest of the cohort to your next class. “Thanks.” (The guy you just filleted is left lying on the floor for the sanitation drones.)  
  
“Serket, Serket… sounds familiar… wait, holy shit.” Verrel’s mouth drops open. “Holy _shit._ You were Eridan Ampora’s childhood kismesis, weren’t you? Oh my god.”  
  
Oh jegus. “We’re not together anymore,” you say quickly. “I was, like, four.”  
  
“I fuckin hope so, he was such a slice of wet seaweed,” Verrel snorts, shaking his head. “Where the hell did he end up, anyways? And how the hell did you get into somewhere like this? Full offense, your blood’s practically chlorine.”  
  
“No idea about Ampora, broke ties with that loser waaaaaaaaay back. And I got my assignment the same way you did, finface.”

“Heh. Well, whatever.” It comes out sounding like wuh-what-ebb-ah, and you hate this place a tiny bit more. “Nice swordwork there anyhow, even if you’ll probably wash out in half a season. We got a break coming up in a few hours, wanna grab a drink?”  
  
The challenging look he gives you is obviously an attempt at blackflirting, if a poor one. You look him over; he’s skinny, but he’s got wiry muscles and he’s at least a head taller than you. Seems smarter than the kid you just corpsed, so he’d probably put up a good fight. “I’ll see if I can work it into my schedule,” you say with a shrug.

 

 

 

Three-fourths of a sweep later, only a fraction of your cohort remains. Trainee Verrel isn’t one of them; he put up a good fight but bled out after a petty argument over the coffee machine that ended in a strife. You wish you could say you were upset about it, but that would be a lie—you’re fairly sure the last time you experienced actual trollish attachment was when you were five sweeps back on Alternia. You’re more upset over how you’re the only one who accidentally calls it a “bitter bean fluid synthesizer” instead of “coffee machine.”  
  
Highbloods have an amusingly difficult time coexisting in small spaces, and none were allowed to bring a moirail, so you have an unexpected advantage: when you strife, you’re cold and calculating, not blinded by rage. At this point the only ones left are the real crafty, vicious ones, the ones who can go into a culling rage and still smash your skull in with needlepoint precision. None of them like you much, but they’re not stupid enough to fuck with you, and you’re smart enough to do the same.  
  
The servants are blueblooded slaves. Some of them have purpler blood than you. They all wear thin, discreet bands of iron around their necks and their hands, and they never, ever look you in the eye.  
  
Serves them right, you think vindictively. You’d never be so stupid as to end up a slave. You’re here right now because you’re better than them. That’s why _your_ cerulean sign is trimmed in gold thread and they are forbidden to wear theirs at all.

 

 

 

One night your cohort—which has gone from over one hundred students to twenty-three—is dragged out of your ‘coons and taken to a cavernous room hundreds of floors below the planet’s surface.  
  
You’d say it was beautiful, if you had time for that sort of thing. The walls are so tall that they vanish into blackness, shimmering with lapis lazuli and amethyst and opal and stones you don’t recognize, all in shades of blue and violet. It’s dim, with elegant aquariums filled with deep-sea glowing fishes lighting the way. A schoolfeeder leads you all to seats crowded at the very end of the room and you all sit with the roar of the waterfall on the opposite wall at your back. Before you is a raised dais, rather simple in comparison to the rest of the room. All your feeders are standing at attention on the dais, arrayed behind a single throne of gleaming gold.  
You’ve only just processed that the throne is also inlaid with fuchsia when the empress enters the room.  
  
Your cohort jumps to attention as one. You’re reeling, and you’re _so glad_ that the almost-a-sweep you’ve spent here has trained you to never, ever show any emotion other than disgust, annoyance, anger, or confidence.  
  
She inspires fear. That’s the first thing you notice about her. You can’t pinpoint the source, can’t tell if it’s the insanely huge mass of jet-black hair, or the 2x3dent carelessly hefted in a hand, or the jewelry dangling from every bit of skin and fold of cloth, or the curve of her smile, or the knowledge of who she is and what she’s done.  
  
Her Imperious Condescension plops down unceremoniously in the throne, shifts a bit, and says, “Shell, whaddaya know. This thing’s more comfortable than the digs I got back on my spray-ship.”  
  
She notices you all standing like there are rods in your spines and waves a hand. “Take a seat, guppies, though I appre-sea-ate the effort. So this is the newest batch?”

“Yes, your Condescension,” murmurs the closest schoolfeeder.  
  
“Aww, they’re so glubbin freshly off-planet their eyes are still pray-tically gray,” she says. “Now, listen up, little fishies. You’re set up to be the mothaglubbas conquerin’ gill-axies for me, ya under-sand-me?”  
  
There’s an uncertain pause, because… of course… you already know that…? Most of you decide the smart thing to do is to nod politely while trying not to expire from terror. It seems to meet with approval from the Queen of All Universes, the Crusher of Civilizations, the Cruel and Rightful Ruler of the Glorious Alternian Empire, She Who Condescends to Lead Us.  
  
“Good,” she says. “Now, I al-rays drop by this miserable lil planet when your feeders here spray that y’all’ve weeded out the weak ones ones by yourshelf. Fin is, now you’ve all got to spray nice, you hear?”  
  
Everyone nods more vigorously to indicate that yes, they hear, pleasedon’tcullme.  
  
The empress continues, “You guppies made it through the first bit, which means every one of you that’s left is con-sea-dered ab-shoal-lutely spray-cious to our Glor-ray-ous Empire. You’re not allowed to die anemonemore, because your little wriggler asses belong to me now. When you leave this planet some of you’ll be captains and lieutenants, but some of you’ll be generals and the very, very best of you’ll be my admirals. I’d spray that what you’ve done to your shell-ow classmates you’ll learn to do to any civilization that stands in my way, but that just ain’t true—what you’ve become to get this far is fuckin _wriggler play_ compared to what I need ya to be.”  
  
Your legs are trembling. You fail to keep it under control. There’s something hilarious about how all your classmates try so hard to stop making fish puns because they think it’s immature when the Condesce is sitting before you spitting out puns like Feferi used to.  
  
You used to wonder what happened to all your old acquaintances, including Peixes—the trainees aren’t allowed contact with the outside world—but as you eye the tines of the empress’s 2x3dent, you find you’re not sure you want to know.  
  
“You.” Suddenly the empress points at a student in the row in front of you. “What’s your name.”  
  
“Tayver Trinai, your imperious condescension,” he says, impressively keeping the tremble in his voice to a minimum.

“You got a moray-eel?”  
  
“No, your imperious condescension.”  
  
“You want one?”  
  
“Um—no, your imperious condescension?” he says in a questioning tone.  
  
“Well, ya de-fin-itely should!” Her sudden increase in volume has him jumping back. “The last fin I need is my top officers flyin’ off the handle at the wrong moment. But you don’t have to worry about that, because I’ve found you a sole-lution. You know what a Second is?”  
  
It takes a moment before someone realizes her silence is expectant. “Yes, your Condescension,” squeaks someone a few seats to your left.  
  
“And?” She cups a hand to an auricular shell. _Ear._ You mean ‘ear.’ (Dammit, you’d almost cleaned up your speech entirely, and here it is coming back again.)  
  
“Chief Auxiliary or Executive Adjutant,” the unlucky volunteer says, words all rushed. “Supposed to assist in matters of strategy and staff coordination, acts in the stead of their officer, can also act as a moirail would in certain emergency situations where their officer has lost control. Usually a blueblood specially trained in military affairs. Um. Your highness.”  
  
The topic of getting a Second is pretty common when your cohort is feeling convivial enough to avoid murdering each other for ten seconds. Conversations are usually very giggly and held in low voices. It all feels vaguely illicit—there’s a _lot_ of porn about this kind of thing, which is really unsurprising because it _totally_ sounds like personal empire-sanctioned pale slave.  
  
Your schoolfeeders strictly informed you all that it’s not actually like that, and that porn is very much _not_ real life, and an officer’s Executive Adjutant is supposed to a lot more than hang around in your quarters and provide hornrubs on demand. The uncontrollable giggling is still a thing that’s happening, though.  
  
“That’s right, guppy,” the empress says, grinning like she can see every single dirty thought you’ve had on the subject.  “Shore, you’ll have your lieutenants, but I’m spraying to you now—and you betta keep it fin mind—your most swimportant resource is your Second. This isn’t just a safety measure or personal paper-pusher, wrigglers, this is the troll you trust to guard you in your sleep. And you _betta_ en-shore it’s a troll who’ll follow you to the ends of the universe, more loyal than a slave in a collar. But this can’t just be a slave, ‘cause they gotta let ya know when your strategy is liable to get you culled and when your inferiors are aimin’ to desert on your asses.”  
  
She leans forward, studies each of your faces. There’s a moment where a hot flash runs up your spinal column and she looks right at you and grins a little wider, a little more vicious. Then it’s gone.  
  
She sits back. “When you leave this room, you’ll be allowed finternet access, which I’m shore you’ve been missin’ quite terribly. You’ll be allowed transports off this planet to visit where-ebb-ah you wanna go. And I’m tellin’ you right now: you find your Second. We’ll assign you one in a few sweeps if you still don’t got a proper moirail— _not_ a lowblood one, mind, one that’s actually gonna keep up with you like I just sprayed—but that’s not what you want. You want swim-one you can trust, ‘cause they’ll be there with ya through more sweeps than your tiny lil minds can imagine.”  
  
In her eyes there’s a shine like suns dying. Her smile is the knife that kills worlds. You feel lightheaded, like the world around you is not quite physically real. You look into her eyes and you’re struck by sudden familiarity, you blink and for a fraction of a second there’s an image imprinted on your eyelids. For a single hairsbreadth of a second you see her, but as a kid your age, with thin braids and punk clothes and tattoos and gold bracelets, head thrown back in laughter.  
  
You blink again and it’s gone. Have your insufferably snobbish classmates driven you insane? Probably.  
  
“You’ll serve a long, long time,” says the Condesce, “you’ll serve ‘till your gills are old and dry, whether you’re a small-time off-fish-er on some planet in the middle of no-weir or an admiral standin’ right at mah side. And if you _are_ an admiral, and if you end up servin’ me properly and well in that position—and not many do, mind—well. I’m shore you guppies have all heard ‘bout what my touch can do.”  
  
You think about what it would be like to live longer than any blueblood would, to watch as the empire spreads without cease across the galaxies, to reach the very ends of the universe and personally extinguish the last of the resistance to Her rule. You feel like it should be a scary thought, but it’s not. It’s just something that you want really, really bad.  
  
With that, the empress puts her webbed hands on the arms of the throne and stands up, stretching. “Well, I sprayed what I came here to spray. When’s the shuttle ready for transport off this shell-hole of a planet?”

A feeder murmurs something softly to her and together they exit the room. A few more follow, weapons at ready, presumably to act as a guard. The remaining schoolfeeders gather you up and lead you out of the cavern and back to your classes.

 

 

 

Your next break from training comes up in just a perigee. You get two nights and an allowance that seems extremely excessive to you but which your classmates are convinced is pathetically paltry, because they grew up even more filthy rich than you. You ditch them as soon as possible and head straight for the heart of the empire, where you stay in the most ridiculously fancy lodgings you can buy and gather in popular hangouts and have fun with trolls your age. You spend a morning flirting flushed with a cute greenblood and end up going back to your room to pail. (It’s meh for pailing in general but pretty good for a first time.) The greenblood is clearly angling for more than a one-day stand, so you have to hurriedly excuse yourself and make it back to the academy a few hours earlier than planned.  
  
A few nights after that the feeders start changing their lesson plans. They move from culling a handful of unlucky dirtbloods in a maze to more realistic large-scale strategy and tactics. One night they pull you from your rooms at a gogforsakenly early hour of the evening and load you into a shuttle. The journey takes an hour longer than usual, and you’re told it’s because you’re going to a solar system on the edge of her Condescension’s reign. They give you a quick briefing on the situation at hand and assign you each a troop to lead personally.  
  
When you step off the shuttle, fitted with breathable-air helmets, you realize the air is freezing and they gave you clothes warm enough for a seadweller, but which are not nearly insulated enough for you. You decide you hate your life.  
  
Unfortunately you have a squad of midbloods watching you, so you can’t wallow in your misery just yet. They’re all adults and they’re looking at you like they’re not sure if they should be bowing or sniggering. 

You look them over and take a moment to review your plan in your head (you’ve been told to take control of an enemy base twenty miles south of here, and you’d developed an idea for how to do it on the journey). That’s when one of them opens his mouth and says with a terrible nasally voice, “Okay, I don’t care what kind of fancy gills-only training academy you got sent to, I think we’ll be leaving the leadership to someone with actual battlefield experience. This is what’s gonna happen: first we’re gonna take—”  
  
You backhand him. He stumbles back, eyes wide, olive blood visible where your claws sliced open his cheek.  
  
“ _This_ is what is going to happen,” you say. “You’re going to lighten up your packs, because we’re going to move quickly and quietly. We’re going to take the enemy base that lies twenty miles south of our current position. And we are going to succeed, because if we don’t then that is one more night _I_ am stuck in this miserable solar system. So I know that you will follow my orders without fail, because if you do, I’ll have you and your quadrants whipped until you’ll wish you died here and now.”  
  
You think you might have hit the olive harder than you meant to—too much time sparring trolls twice as strong as you—because he looks genuinely terrified. You’re used to seeing that expression from pre-corpse lowbloods, but this is someone who’s supposed to obey you, not run from you, and you feel a bit lightheaded.  
  
You consider your rankings and where they’ll lead you if you keep them up. Well, it’s a feeling you’ll have to get used to.

 

 

 

You don’t try to contact your old acquaintances from your wrigglerhood. You’re tempted to, sometimes, when you’re staring at trollian and all the new names you have listed and you realize how none of them know a single thing about you, other than your class rank (second from the top) and that you’re aiming high and you’ll do anything to get there. You haven’t had a real friend since Conscription. Since before that even—your last real friend was Terezi, and you cut ties with her when you were six.  
  
The other reason you don’t contact your old friends is that the only ones higher than blue were Eridan and Feferi, and Feferi is probably rotting on the ocean floor somewhere and you have zero desire to talk to Eridan. And there’s no way you could talk to anyone lower on the spectrum than those two, not when you’re still struggling to get past the curse of being cobalt.  
  
There’s thread of thought in your head with a voice suspiciously like Terezi Pyrope, and it’s putting a finger to a chin and patronizingly wondering to itself if there is anything to who you are other than your rank and your drive for power. You tell that voice that it sounds like a patronizing little shit and concentrate on your assignments.

 

 

 

You’ve been at the military officer’s academy for a sweep and a half. You’ve let your hair grow long, and you’ve threaded very finely made and nearly invisible barbed wire throughout its unruly mass so that anyone who tries grabbing it in the middle of a strife is in for a nasty surprise. You’ve grown tall and lanky with wiry muscles. You have the very best cybernetic replacements for your limbs, and although the academy has offered to replace your eye, you’ve kept the eyepatch as a little challenge: _I’ve got only one good eye and I can still kick your ass._  
  
You’re in the practice room, having it out with a dummy and pausing every now and then to check the stats on your reflexes. These nights most of your schoolfeeds focus on how to conquer whole planets, not one-on-one combat, but you’re still the only blueblood here and you know that you have to keep up your strength training if you want to keep your rank.  
  
There’s the sound of boots clanking outside the door. You immediately cancel the practice program and lean against a wall, waiting.  
  
It’s Beclim Kyravo. She’s top of the rankings, you’re second. You don’t know much about her, other than that she had the highest cullcount out of all of you back when everyone’s lives were free game. She also has no friends. It’s not like you have much to boast in that regard, since all the others despise you, but you’re nosy and loud and difficult to ignore and you’ve formed grudging acquaintanceships with most of them over time. You went up to her a while ago and casually asked if she needed anyone to talk to, because you are a fucking _troll maestro_ when it comes to the conciliatory quadrants, and also she was kind of pitiful, what with her just culling everyone who got in her way instead of actually talking about her problems. She treated you to a nice view of her middle finger.  
  
“What do you want?” you snap. Okay, so maybe you’re a little bitter—you haven’t been turned down that harshly in a long time.  
  
“Maybe I just want to train a little,” Kyravo says, for all the world as if that’s what she came here to do. If it were anyone else you would be relaxing, hearing the ring of truth in her words, but this is the girl who beat _you_ for the top spot. You slouch against the wall and watch with a scowl.  
  
Rather than use her bare fists or her regulation sword, she flicks the switch that lowers the rack with all the weapons the practice room provides. Examines them. Selects two long, curved knives. Tests their weight. Presses a finger to each edge and watches a bead of violet blood appear on her fingertip.  
  
You stay silent as she takes a knife in each hand and turns to the dummy. She takes a moment to draw herself up, concentrating, each muscle in her back tensed and visible through the uniform. Then she attacks: a slice here, a stab there. It’s not elegant, it’s swift and utilitarian, and the dummy is in pieces at least twice as fast as you could have done it. You’ve seen Kyravo in action before, but you’re still a little intimidated.  
  
Then she buries a knife in your stomach.  
  
You choke, gargle, cough blood. Cerulean glistens on your chin, drips onto your hands. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, she moved so fast you didn’t even see her _turn_ —  
  
“—sorry about your palecrush on me,” and her eyes are wide and innocent but so, so cruel, “but I can’t risk losing my rank to you. I mean, let’s be honest with ourselves here. Your blood’s practically dirt compared to mine.”  
  
You can’t breathe. There’s blood in your lungs and your legs are crumpling under you and you’re going to die, there’s so much pain and her blade tore right through half your internal organs, you’re going to _die._

Kyravo twirls her other knife in her left hand. She’s leaning toward you, expression intent. She’s planning where to cut next to finish you off and you can’t move and you’re going to throw up oh no oh no oh no you’re going to die.  
  
Her arm draws back and in your terror you reach out blindly with your mind.  
  
Her arm shudders to a stop.  
  
You freeze all her muscles, staring into her eyes, feeling the numbness as your lifeblood drains out and facing the terrible knowledge that you’re not going to be able to hold her for long.  
  
“… _psychic_.” She forces the growl past her unmoving lips.  
  
You kept it a secret. In the early nights, when you could cull with impunity and it was a matter of course rather than a crime, you’d wait until someone attacked you (or said something that clearly meant they intended to become a threat to you) and then you’d get them alone, _like Kyravo just did to you howcouldyoubesostupid,_ you’d weaken them until you were certain of your victory, and then you’d experiment. Your manipul8ion had never worked very well on Eridan when you were wrigglers, but you practiced and practiced, and after twelve or so culls you’d honed your mind until it could whittle past even a thick seadweller skull. If you used it on a troll, it was one who you would ensure would not live to tell the tale. It’s your most guarded secret.  
  
You use it to force Kyravo to drive her other knife into her own throat.  
  
If dying slowly is a contest, you win. She’s dead in seconds, while you watch her corpse and bleed out.  
  
There’s no cameras here, and no one to hear you call for help. You’re furious, because you are Vriska Serket, and you were not meant to die like this.  
  
No one comes for you. You die alone. _  
_

 

 

 

Terezi Pyrope comes to you in your dreams. You’re younger than you are now, and she’s wearing her FLARP costume and her red glasses. You want to laugh at the sight, but you see something terrible in her face, and instead you turn away. Her canesword pierces your body. Her dream-blade is the blade in your stomach. Your dream-death is the death you are suffering.  
  
In your dreams you blind Terezi a thousand times over. She kills you a thousand times over. Her eyes are your eyes. Your death is her death. There are other things in the dreams that come to you while your soul twists frantically in your undone flesh, but she is clearest. She avenges the death of every one of your cohort you have culled. She frowns at you, disappointed, and tells you she will never forgive you. _  
_

 

 

 

When you wake up you’re in the same practice room. Kyravo’s body is there in front of you, a sticky purple mess coagulating around her neck, where the knife still sticks.  
  
The other knife is in your lap. You stare at it blankly. You see your blood all over the blade, but isn’t any more pain and your limbs are moving just fine, so you’re no longer dying and you’re not a ghost. You can’t figure out why you’re no longer dying.  
  
You realize your lap is the wrong color. You should be wearing your all-black uniform with the jacket and the pants and the cerulean trimming with your sign on the front. But your lap looks all yellow-orange… as if you would ever be caught dead wearing _yellow._  
  
You stand up shakily and close the door, because you may possibly be losing your mind but you do know that if someone walked in right now there would be no evidence that Kyravo had attacked you first, and you don’t want to be arrested for murder. Then you use the reflection from your palmhusk to take a look at yourself.  
  
You’re wearing a yellow dress with a hood and a sun emblazoned on your chest. It fits you perfectly, and it’s not made out of any cloth you recognize. You reach behind you half-expectantly, and for a moment you see the outline of a pair of wings—no. It’s gone, and you’re not sure if you were imagining it or not.  
  
You touch your stomach. There’s no wound, and while there is cobalt blood on the floor where you fell, there’s no blood on your skin or your dress. You take a close look at your face and you don’t see any of the scars you recognize. Your skin is unblemished.  
  
You’re afraid.  
  
You don’t know why you look like this, or why you came back (because you are stonily, utterly sure that you were dead a minute ago). But you see the sun on your dress and it feels like you’re looking into a chasm and seeing nothing but blackness at the bottom.  
  
It takes you half an hour of screwing around with your sylladex with shaking hands, but you manage to captchalogue the body and get rid of all the blood. You dig out a sponge at the back of your sylladex—it’s funny how constant bloodshed gets you used to cleaning it up—and scrub down the entire room, until you’re sure that no trace of either of you can be found. You go to the practice room’s computer and delete the records for the last hour. It would probably still be retrievable if someone bothered to dig through the hard drive, but if someone suspects enough to do that you’re already screwed.

You dash back to your room as fast as you can, Kyravo’s body still in your sylladex, still sweating. You run to the wardrobifier and switch back into your uniform. You go to the incinerator and get rid of all the evidence. You have to slice the body into fourths for it to fit, but it does eventually.  
  
The schoolfeeders notice when Beclim Kyravo doesn’t show up the next night. A few nights later you see them disdainfully greet a tealblooded legislacerator, and every one of the students is interviewed. You can tell they suspect you, but they don’t find enough evidence to do anything about it.  
  
You’re first in the rankings now.

 

 

 

You’re ten sweeps old, and you’re half a perigee away from graduation. It’s not an elaborate affair: the feeders just tell you that you’re about to go on to your official assignments. You’re still the highest ranked and they hate you for it. There’s a rumor that you’re black for one troll and a rumor that you’re in ash with two others, but they’re both lies. You’re not desperate enough to jump into a quadrant with a violetblood who’s only interested in your novelty value.  
  
It’s not long before they hand out simple, plain forms with writing dotted with the empress’s fish puns. It asks you to state the name of “an appropriately qualified moirail, if applicable.” There’s a line underneath.  
  
You mark the box for “no such individual exists” and sign your name. You’re about to hand it back in, but then you stop.  
  
The feeders have already pulled you aside and told you that when you leave, you’ll be given the rank of admiral and you’ll rendezvous with the empress’s flagship at the very core of her armada. There the Condesce herself will give you your orders and your army. If you ask them to give you a Second, they’re not going to hand you just anyone; they’ll give you the cream of the crop. You looked up what “appropriately qualified” means—the Chief Auxiliaries who train specifically for that position are always upper midbloods or lower highbloods, with schooling in everything that you’ve learned, but with less battlefield experience, communications skills, a smattering of military law, and “adequate instruction in effective conciliation and the art of the pale quadrant.” (You’re not sure what the hell that means in practical terms, but it sure does sound like something out of a porno.)  
  
So, yeah, if you were assigned a Second it would probably be someone smart and strong and capable of keeping up with you. But there are a lot of trolls who are smart and strong and capable, and you don’t want to be stuck with just any troll. They don’t need to be strong, or your emergency backup moirail, or whatever, but they _need_ to be as smart as you.  
  
You rack your brain, staring at the paper, trying to come up with a single person for whom you have that level of respect and trust. You come up empty.  
  
Then you think, _The only person I know who is smarter than me is Terezi Pyrope._  
  
The moment the name occurs to you your brain shuts down. No. No way. There are a thousand reasons why writing down her name is a terrible idea, starting with “she went into legislacerative training” to “you haven’t spoken since you were six” to “she probably still hates you for being a murderer.”  
  
Thing is, if you’d met her in a bar a few systems away, you wouldn’t trust her an inch.  
She’d probably take one look at you and impale you with her canesword.  
  
But if you were tied together by order of law, with the will of the empress binding you together…  
  
You’re pretty sure that no matter how much Terezi has changed, she still worships the law like a cultist worships torture implements.  
  
(She always saw right through you. You miss her.)  
  
When you write her name on the dotted line, you are looking into the same chasm you gazed into when you wore a yellow dress with a sun over your heart. You feel like you just stepped over its edge.

 

 

 

She’s still six sweeps old in your imagination, so it’s a surprise when the person who steps off the shuttle is a ten-sweep-old legislacerator wearing Terezi’s glasses and hair and face. She’s a few inches shorter than you, still thin and bony, but her chin has elongated, her skin darkened. She has the same cane, and her black-and-teal legislacerator’s uniform is edged in bright red. Her expression is carefully unreadable, but you’ve spent sweeps learning to read people: she’s tense, tired, and a little angry.  
  
“Hello, Pyrope,” you say. “Long time no _see,_ am I right?”  
  
She sniffs in your direction, head tilted. Her mouth opens once, then closes, like she doesn’t know what words to use.  
  
“…Vriska Serket,” she says finally, completely ignoring your incredibly witty pun. “What have you done?”  
  
Around you, your erstwhile classmates are greeting their Seconds. Several pairs have obviously been quadrantmates for a while, from the way they embrace gently and hold hands, smiling at each other in giddy excitement. The ones who have recently been assigned to each other greet more coolly—new officers sizing up their new Seconds with thinly veiled interest, new Seconds bowing politely and inquiring unassumingly as to their new officers’ lives.  
  
“I’m not really sure how to respond to that question!” you say brightly. “I’ve done a _loooooooot_ of things since we last talked. The good news is, we can catch up on the way to the Condesce’s flagship!”  
  
Terezi does not look happy about this proposition. You don’t know how to deal with that, so you decide to ignore it altogether. You link arms with your new Chief Auxiliary, block your ears to her indignant protests, and lead the way to your designated transport ship. “We’re going to have so much fun, you’ll see,” you promise. “It’ll be just like old times.”  
  
“Miss Blueberry, ‘just like old times’ is not an endorsement in your favor,” she says, grinding her teeth, but suddenly you’re soaring, because she sounds exactly like she used to. It’s like you’re six again and she’s telling you what an absolutely terrible person you are just because you made some loser take a left turn off a cliff.  
  
“So how’ve you been? Learn all sorts of really boring law stuff?”  
  
“So far you haven’t given me a good reason to speak to you at all.”  
  
“Come on, you’re my Second now, you can’t just ignore me—there’s all kinds of awful things they do to you if you betray your commanding officer. Some of them are really cool, like, I heard there was this thing where they take a screw and they tighten it around your horn and just sort of keep tightening… And, hey, look at that, I’m an admiral now! These blue thingies on my uniform say so.”  
  
“You’re just as annoying as you used to be,” says Terezi. Her mouth is curved in a fraction of smile.  
  
You take that smile and you run with it. You fill the air between you with meaningless chatter and work at increasing that smile in bits and pieces. You don’t tell her that after so many sweeps, her scratchy cackle sounds like the voice of one of those big white scary “angel” things that wrigglers think are real. Your cheeks turn blue at the thought, but you kind of want to sit down with her and hold her hands and tell her how lonely you’ve been since Conscription.  
  
Some secrets just want to be told. Those are the kind that weigh heavy on the tongue, and the secret of your loneliness is like a fucking bowling ball. You feel like if you keep your mouth open for too long the words _Terezi I’m so alone I just want to be your friend_ will come pouring out, whether you want it or not.  
  
Wow. Just, wow. You’ve had a lot of flings since you left Alternia, especially ash and pale, but you’re crushing on her _hard._  
  
Well, uh. You guess you don’t have to worry about the courting process, because, um. You’ve kind of bypassed that via imperial sanction. Um.  
  
Wow, this is somehow a lot more awkward in person than it is on paper. You’re starting to maybe regret the whole “empire-arranged quadrants” thing, because contrary to what softcore porn would have you believe, it’s really taking the romance out of the relationship.

 

 

 

Three nights later, you’ve survived a rather inept assassination attempt (except the fucker got away, gogdammit) and the unexpected appearance of Terezi sitting outside your recuperacoon in the middle of the day. Not to mention a guilt trip of epic proportions followed by the nerve-wracking trollian conversation of a lifetime. In a weird way it’s been even more frightening than your sweeps at the military academy. Okay, you’re just saying that for dramatic effect, it’s a complete relief after the academy, but still.  
  
Right now you couldn’t care less about dramatic phrasing, because you and Terezi have had a hell of a day. You woke up curled around each other, still purring in the back of your throat. Terezi made a cute little disgruntled sound when you tried to move her to get up, so you’re stuck lying in the pile you made out of scalemates, spare legal texts, your snazziest dress uniforms (which are now crumpled and you don’t even give a fuck), and—yes—your old FLARP manuals. You’re not complaining; it’s very comfortable and you’re still incredibly drowsy after an absolutely _fantastic_ feelings jam. Like, _wow._  
  
“Mmmhh,” your moirail (!!!!!!!!) groans. “I am not sure I am capable of muscle movement.”  
  
“You can go back to sleep if you want,” you say hopefully. You’re lowkey hoping to give her another massage, she made the most adorable little noises when you did it a few hours ago.  
  
“Our glorious empire cannot be built solely on decadence, Miss Blueberry,” she says in a voice that, although muffled, still sounds like she sees right through your false pretenses. She’s still lying facedown. “You’re an important leadership figure, you have to learn this sometime. We have to get up at some point and it might as well be now.”  
  
There’s a lingering relaxed sensation in every bit of your body. Your legs feel like troll Jell-O. “Who said anything about ‘we’?”  
  
“What, a mere Executive Adjutant acting autonomously from her commanding officer? How scandalous, of course I would never do anything like that,” says Terezi, pushing herself up.  
  
“Are you _still_ carping on about that? I thought we jammed that out hours ago. Our whole arranged quadrant thing was the whole focus of our jam sesh.”  
  
“My feelings on the issue may have been bettered somewhat, but it is still a far more unfortunate situation for me than it is for you, and it is my life now, so I will continue ‘carping on’ about it for however long I wish to, Miss Blueberry. Unless you’d like to order me to shut up?”  
  
“Hey,” you say, frowning. “I wouldn’t do that. Not ever. Not even if you’re being really annoying. If you’re too annoying I’ll just punch some sense into you, I’m not going to pull rank. Besides, you’re, like, way smarter than me anyways.”  
  
“Ha! Finally, a true fact is spoken.”  
  
Terezi’s left the pile and is moving around her room. You hear the sound of a comb going through hair, but you’re busy examining the ceiling and refusing to budge an inch, so you’re not really sure. “Have I mentioned that was really great jam session? Because, just saying, it was a really great jam sesh. No offense, but I’m, like, really good at this. You’re really good at this too. We’re both, together, really, awesomely good at this.”  
  
“I quite concur, Admiral,” says Terezi, tossing you a bottle of horn polish. “Now make yourself presentable, you have to walk back to your block soon.”  
  
“If I sit up I’m going to fall over.”  
  
“That’s the point, Vriska, you look very obviously like a recently shooshed troll and it’s going to be even more obvious if you’re seen walking out of my block in the late evening.”  
  
“But why do I have to leave,” you mumble. You turn your head and put on your most wide-eyed, pitiful expression.  
  
She tosses a scalemate at you. It bonks you on the head. “Because we have things to do! We have jobs! And lives! Like the adult trolls we are! My files just came in, I need to investigate some aliens. And you need to leave my respiteblock so I can concentrate. Deal?”  
  
“Fine, whatever. You’re so mean.”  
  
She throws another scalemate at you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friend: *points out certain part* ok fine except that's not how troll diction works in canon  
> me: yes but i do what i want  
> friend: ok but—  
> me: its whatever my guy. its chill my man


	3. what the hammer, what the chain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: blood, non-graphic discussions of torture, brief and only mildly graphic violence, minor character death
> 
> also, "FTL travel" means "faster-than-light travel," for those who don't read ridiculous amounts of sci-fi novels like i do

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began trolling glowingActivist [GA] \--  
  
TT: Kanaya?  
TT: Kanaya, are you there?  
TT: It’s been a long time, I know. Almost four years since the Game crashed. And I wish I could have contacted you far earlier than this, but I have only recently gained technology capable of accessing this chat client. I only wish the circumstances were better than this.  
TT: Please, if you are out there, answer me.  
GA: I Am Sorry  
GA: Who Is This  
TT: It’s Rose.  
TT: I won’t be able to type much longer. I am sure they will catch me soon, I had to leave quite the trail of bodies to get here, and I will need to destroy this computer before they find me.  
TT: I know it’s too much to ask after so long apart, and it could put you in grave danger, but I need you to contact Jade or John. If you reach out with your aspect Jade may be able to locate you.  
TT: Tell them we are being held somewhere within the Condesce’s central array of spaceships and I think I could escape on my own, but I refuse to leave Dave behind.  
TT: Tell them that we miss them and we intend to see them again.  
TT: I want to see you again too, Kanaya.  
TT: I have to go.  
GA: There Seems To Have Been Some Kind Of Mistake  
GA: I Do Not Recognize Your Handle And I Do Not Know Who This Jade Or John Is  
GA: Although It Is Odd That You Know My Name  
GA: Our Contact Information Is Concealed By Several Layers Of Protection And I Would Dearly Like To Know Who Gave You My Handle  
  
tentacleTherapist’s [TT] computer has exploded!

 

\--

 

Your name is Terezi Pyrope and you’ve spent the last five hours watching security tape upon security tape. You know every single boring inch of the two battleships that have vanished into the mysterious unknown due to the mysterious unknown actions of mysterious unknown aliens. You know all the internal cameras and external cameras and the view from every outside-facing port throughout both whole ships. You skimmed through all the verbal and textual transmissions and sniffed out nothing particularly out of the ordinary, and you’ve been reduced to licking the screen at regular intervals to pick out individual details in each static, boring frame.  
  
All of them start at different times but cut out at the same time, the feeds going black and ending. There’s no static before the end, no camera jitter or other clue, just crewmembers going about their nightly business as they prepare to barrage the planet they are orbiting, and then sudden darkness.  
  
And then, finally, your tastebuds pick up a blur in the corner of a video.  
  
You halt, bloodpusher pounding against your thoracic cage. You pause the recording and rewind it just a few seconds, sniffing so hard your sniffer aches a little.  
  
There are two blurs, not just one. One is bright blue, the other black, just a shade lighter than the black space surrounding it. They appear side by side, in the right upper edge of an external camera, probably about forty feet away from the hull, just seconds before the feeds cut out. You zoom in as far as possible and slow the recording to a fourth of its true speed.  
  
Just a fraction of a second before the first warship vanishes, the blurs snap into focus.  
  
When you realize what they are, you sniff at it for a moment longer, hoping it might be something different if you wait long enough. Then you close the husktop, fingers trembling.  
  
The blurs are John Egbert and Jade Harley.  
  
Sort of—they’re older, or at least you assume that the differences in their figures are due to human aging processes. You infer that the blur in their patch of sky is due to a bubble of warm, breathable air surrounding them, which would explain John’s presence. You can also infer what happened to the warships easily, because Jade’s hands are outstretched, joining together in a gesture you recognize. The thumb and forefinger of one hand are touching the forefinger and thumb of the other, forming a rectangle, a window.

Part of you wants to laugh, because the Bereaver and the Destroyer are probably being stored as the size of cheap souvenirs inside Jade Harley’s pockets.  
  
But you’re not laughing, because you assumed that Earth and the alien kids you met in the Game were placed in their own compartmentalized universe, not consolidated into yours. How long did the database say the conquest of their planet had gone on for? Five sweeps? That’s ten human years that the human race, with its total lack of faster-than-light travel, psychic powers or appropriate weaponry, has been fending off the advances of the Alternian Empire. If the humans are the same age as you are now, then they’ve been embroiled in a doomed war since they were human wrigglers.  
  
In the security tape they were wearing their godtier outfits and using godtier powers, which is interesting all by itself… but even with that, there’s no way they could hold out against the might of the empire. The ships that have been deployed to their planet are nothing compared to the full armada—if they prove too difficult to enslave, the Condesce will just send more troops.  
  
The briefing said that some of the humans had been captured.  
  
You remember Rose and Dave and the sweep and a half you spent together on the meteor. You never dared imagine that you’d smell Dave’s bright red text again, or Rose’s dark pink. You missed Dave especially for quite a long time. The briefing said the empire’s most experienced xenobiologists and doctorturers couldn’t identify the source of their powers, which makes perfect sense considering they were granted to you all during the Game.  
  
It also means that your… _friends,_ they probably still count as your friends, as distant as you are now… they’ve likely spent however long they’ve been in captivity undergoing excruciatingly painful medical experimentation.  
  
There’s a sick feeling in your gut. As grim as it is, it’s likely a good thing that they still possess godtier abilities, and therefore conditional immortality. You doubt they’d still be breathing otherwise.  
  
And the Condesce wants _you_ to secure their cooperation and use them to enslave their own kind. You recall John’s annoyingly cheery good-naturedness and Dave’s staunch morality hidden behind layers of “irony” and pointless monologues, Jade’s friendly kindness and Rose’s convoluted yet steady form of affection and loyalty. No wonder they want you to work on it—trying to get those four to betray their friends must be as rewarding as repeatedly running into a wall skull-first. The interrogators must be grasping at elongated pieces of hay-like material at this point.

"Secure their cooperation.” You can’t torture your friends. You can’t. You can do every humiliating duty asked of you in your role as Vriska’s Second but you can’t do this, you can’t. You can’t torture them, you need to get them out of there, you need to save them because you know that’s what they would do for you.  
  
Except no one makes it out of slavery alive, especially not alien slaves. The same goes for their would-be liberators. There’s nothing you can _do._  
  
In a distant way you recognize that you’re hyperventilating, and you also recognize that this is exactly the kind of situation that moirallegiance is meant for. But there’s no way you can explain this to Vriska. She would think you’ve gone insane.  
  
And, well. Even if Vriska did remember the Game, she still might be unsympathetic. You like to think that she’d immediately decide to help them—she was really attached to Egbert, at least for a little while, right?—but it’s equally likely that she’d just say it was their fault for not submitting to the empire.  
  
You dig your claws into your legs. Your moirail’s profession is the conquest and enslavement of people like John and Dave and Rose and Jade, and you’re supposed to accompany her on her campaigns and assist her in those same conquests. Remain eternally at her side. Follow her orders unflinchingly and without question. Give your life in her name, if asked. With the blackness swirling behind your ganderbulbs, you think your greatest fear: _if I went against her, truly went against her, would she have me culled? She nearly culled me before. If she ordered me dead now for any reason at all, the law would be on her side. No court would convict her._  
  
Just hours ago you sobbed a broken approximation of those words into her shoulder, and she swore that she would never hurt you, not for any reason, not even if you deserted. You try to remember what made you believe her.  
  
Dimly you register that the door is being opened, but your only reaction is a slight twitch toward your weapon.  
  
You hear footsteps padding in your direction. You can smell her now; it’s Vriska.  
  
“—won’t believe what I just found, I ordered some tea to be brought up to my block and they put food coloring packets on the saucer, can you believe it? Come and smell this, I made you bright red tea… Terezi? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say in your brightest voice, straightening up. You try to believe it. You’re sweating in alternating bouts of hot and cold and you dug your claws into your thighs so hard you think you’re bleeding, but you’re. Just. Fine.  
  
“No you’re not.” She lifts up your chin. “What happened?”  
  
“If I could tell you I would, but I can’t. Please leave it alone.”  
  
She looks down and crosses her arms like a petulant wriggler. “Fine. Drink some hideously colored tea, it’ll cheer you up.”  
  
What escapes you is a pathetic approximation of a laugh. You take the cup of scalding leaf fluid and sip; the bland flavor is indeed complimented by a dash of red food coloring. “Delicious.”  
  
That seems to cheer her up more than it cheers you, but at least she’s not asking you prying questions anymore. You take your time drinking. The color coating your tongue combined with your thoughts of your erstwhile human friends serves to dredge up another topic you thought you’d forgotten long ago.  
  
You sigh. “On the subject of deliciously bright red, did you ever learn what happened to Karkat at Ascension?”  
  
Vriska hesitates. You can tell she’s trying not to upset you any further. “No, they didn’t let us have any outside contact for the first three fourths of a sweep, and I never contacted any of our old hatefriends from the home planet. Did you?”  
  
You did, and you know exactly what happened to Karkat, although you’re not sure where exactly he is now since his location has to be kept secret at all costs. You always wondered what Vriska would think of Karkat and Kanaya’s current… enterprise.  
  
The lie comes easy and practiced to your tongue: “No, I’m afraid I lost touch with him when we turned eight. I still talk to Nepeta and a few of the others, though.” You flick Vriska playfully in the auricular shell. “I’m still not over the fact that you’re going to be part of the Condesce’s inner circle.”  
  
She smirks. “Well it’s not quite inner circle, but in a few dozen sweeps, who knows?”

“Have you chosen a title yet? Your troops have to call you something, and I’ve always been led to believe that a hatchname is simply not intimidating enough for a commander of Her Imperious Condescension’s forces.”  
  
“You don’t just choose a name, your direct superior gives you one after your first successful campaign,” she gasps between laughter (you started tickling her side halfway through her sentence as just retribution for taking herself way too seriously).  
  
Your tickle war erupts into giggles on both sides. “Never realized you were so ticklish, admiral!” you snicker. “Do you even have a direct superior? Other than Condy herself?”  
  
“There are more senior generals, they're supposed to supervise all my campaigns for the first two sweeps, but—Pyrope, that’s playing dirty!” You’d started scritching the base of her horns while she wasn’t paying attention and all her words are coming out half a purr.  
  
“In my defense I’d like to say that you’re completely adorable,” you tell her. She tries to steal your specs, but you’d guess she’s already feeling warm and fuzzy because her movements are relatively slow. You switch to a full on horn massage. Hey, it’s not like either of you have anything you’re supposed to be doing right now.  
  
“You should be more reverent around me, I’m an important military figure,” she mumbles.  
  
“Yes, yes, whatever, Admiral, now give me that frond massage you promised last day.”  
  
She pulls you toward her and places a tiny kiss on your forehead. “No complaints here.”

 

\--

 

\-- [redacted] [CG] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--  
  
CG: WE NEED TO TALK.   
CG: NOW.  
CG: TEREZI, IF YOU’RE IGNORING MY TEXTS AGAIN, I’M GOING TO HAVE KANAYA SEND OUT THE MOST INTREPID AND VALUABLE FIELD AGENTS TO INFILTRATE YOUR CURRENT LOCATION, BRAVELY MAKE THEIR WAY PAST THE MOST TERRIFYING OF SAFEGUARDS, AND PULL OUT YOUR INTESTINES BY WAY OF YOUR THROAT WHILE FILMING IT SO I CAN WATCH AND CHEER FROM THE COMFORT AND PRIVACY OF MY BLOCK.  
CG: ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? THIS IS IMPORTANT.  
CG: NOT THAT EVERYTHING I CONTACT YOU ABOUT ISN’T OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE.  
CG: ALRIGHT, YOU’RE CLEARLY IGNORING ME, SO I’LL JUST GO RIGHT AHEAD:  
CG: YOUR TRACKER SAYS YOU’RE ON A TRANSPORT SHIP ON THE WAY TO OUR EVIL FISH EMPRESS OVERLORD’S FUCKING FLAGSHIP.  
CG: AND HAVE YOU PROVIDED KANAYA OR I WITH ONE SINGLE WORD OF EXPLANATION? NO. YOU HAVEN’T.  
CG: NOT EVEN A “HEY KARKAT, I’M GOING TO THE LITERAL FUCKING FLAGSHIP OF THE SCARIEST FINFACE IN THE UNIVERSE. I’M PROBABLY GOING TO END UP DEAD IN SOME HORRIBLE WAY THAT HASN’T BEEN INVENTED YET. SEE YOU IN THE HANDMAID’S WARM EMBRACE.”  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK.  
GC: 1 KNOW TH1S 1S PROB4BLY 4LR34DY 4 LOST C4US3 CONS1D3RING YOUR INH3R3NT N4TUR3 4S K4RK4T V4NT4S BUT YOU R34LLY DON’T H4V3 TO WORRY 4BOUT M3  
GC: 1 4M NOT GO1NG TO B3 CULL3D  
GC: 1TS H1GHLY L1K3LY TH4T 1 W1LL B3 SP3ND1NG TH3 M4JOR1TY OF MY L1F3 FROM NOW ON B31NG SHUTTL3D B3TW33N 1NT3RG4L4CT1C4L B4TTL3F13LDS 4ND TH3 COND3SC3S COR3 4RM4D4  
CG: WHAT? WHY? WHY THE FUCK WOULD A LEGISLACERATOR BE ON A BATTLEFIELD?!  
GC: JUST CH3CK TH3 1MP3R14L N3WSF33DS 1M SUR3 4LL TH3 GOSS1P M4GS 4R3 4LL OV3R TH3 STORY BY NOW  
GC: 1 H4V3 TO GO  
CG: TEREZI IF YOU LEAVE WITHOUT GIVING ME A PROPER EXPLANATION I WON’T JUST SEND FIELD AGENTS TO PULL OUT YOUR ORGANS VIA YOUR THROAT, I’LL THROW ASIDE EVERYTHING WE’VE EVER WORKED FOR AND I’LL MARCH *PERSONALLY* TO HER IMPERIAL FISHINESS’ FUCKING THRONE ROOM AND I WILL FUCKING DO IT MYSELF.  
GC: 1M J4MM1NG K4RK4T 1LL TROLL YOU L4T3R  
  
\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC]  has blocked [redacted] [CG]! \--  
  
CG: WHAT.

 

The imperial gossip feeds are, in fact, all over the story at this point. You always thought the way propaganda feeds talk about generals was weird, but gossip mags are just downright creepy. They have enlarged glossy photos of your face, but they’ve edited them that your zits are absent and Vriska’s nose looks straight despite being quite crooked in real life. The headlines include phrases such as “EXCLUSIVE!!!!” and “NEVER-BEFORE-SEEN!!!!!!!!” It’s all very embarrassing.  
  
The remaining nights of your journey include what are, to your delight and surprise, probably the best jams of your entire existence. You spend more time cathartically releasing your inner demons and feeling utterly blissed out afterwards than you have spent in your life.  The one or two pale relationships you’ve had in the past few sweeps lasted quite a while, but you’ve never experienced the sheer influx of pacificatory chemicals flooding your system in this week alone. You feel like a wriggler struggling with their first experience with hormones instead of a fully-fledged adult with a job and a life. Every moment you get, you spend together. Your budding relationship is so sweet, adorable and filled with pure pity that it is liable to rot your edible nourishment chewing stubs.  
  
In other words, your first emotional impressions of adult Vriska as an adult yourself are very positive, although very giggly. It’s also a welcome distraction from the fact that the human players are currently being tortured by HIC’s xenobiologists, which is already slipping into your daymares. Man, fuck your daymares.

 

\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] has unblocked [redacted] [CG]! \--  
  
CG: PLEASE ACCEPT MY PUSHER-FELT CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PROMOTION FROM “IN TRAINING TO BE AN IMPERIAL BUSYBODY WITH A LEGAL EXCUSE TO STICK YOUR EXTREMELY LONG SNIFFER IN OTHER TROLLS’ BUSINESS” TO “CHIEF PAPER OOKBEAST TO THE MOST OBNOXIOUS PIECE OF SHIT OF OUR SHARED WRIGGLERHOOD.”  
CG: OR ALTERNATIVELY, ALLOW ME TO OFFER MY SINCERE CONDOLENCES ON BEING FOREVER TIED TO VRISKA MINDFUCK SERKET.  
GC: 1LL 4DM1T 1M H4V1NG D1FF1CULTY D3C1D1NG WH1CH C4MP MY CURR3NT 3MOT1ONS F4LL 1NTO 4S W3LL  
CG: I WAS HALF HOPING SHE’D GET HERSELF CULLED DURING CONSCRIPTION.  
GC: TH4TS  
GC: 1 W4S GO1NG TO S4Y TH4TS 4 V3RY CRU3L TH1NG TO S4Y BUT 1N 4LL HON3STY YOU 4R3 QU1T3 JUST1F13D 1N HOP1NG TH4T 1N 4 MULT1TUD3 OF W4YS  
CG: IN ORDER TO SOOTHE MY TROUBLED MIND AFTER YOUR NEAR MISS WITH CONTRADICTING THAT BLINDINGLY OBVIOUS SENTIMENT, PLEASE TELL ME THAT WHEN YOU BLEW ME OFF EARLIER BY CLAIMING THAT YOU WERE IN THE MIDDLE OF A FEELINGS JAM, YOU WERE HOOKING UP FOR A ONE-DAY PILE WITH A TOTAL STRANGER, NOT CONSUMMATING YOUR IMPERIALLY-MANDATED QUADRANTING WITH THE SPIDERBITCH.  
GC: SORRY TO BURST YOUR BUBBL3 BUT W3’R3 TOG3TH3R  
GC: P4L3 4S SNOW  
CG: THE IMAGE OF THE TWO OF YOU TOGETHER IS ENOUGH TO MAKE ME WANT TO FORCIBLY EJECT THIS EVENING’S MEAL VIA MY GULLET.  
CG: YOUR WHOLE CLUSTERFUCK BEARS SUSPICIOUS RESEMBLANCE TO A NUMBER OF POPULAR PALE PORN FRANCHISES, EXCEPT INSTEAD OF ACTORS IT’S JUST TWO STICKS PAPPING EACH OTHER.  
GC: WOW K4RKL3S, 1 W4SNT 4W4R3 YOU PUT SO MUCH 3FFORT 1NTO V1V1DLY 1M4G1N1NG MY CONC1L14TORY 3XPLO1TS >:]  
CG: SHUT YOUR TRAP.  
GC: 1TS NOTH1NG L1K3 TH3 PORN 1F TH4TS WHY YOUR3 CONT4CT1NG M3  
CG: … THAT WAS NOT BY ANY STRETCH OF THE IMAGINATION CLOSE TO WHAT I AM CONTACTING YOU FOR. BUT THANK YOU FOR THAT.  
CG: MY THOUGHTS WERE MORE ALONG THE LINES OF: “IS YOUR PANMATTER ENTIRELY COMPOSED OF LINT AND PAPERCLIPS?”  
CG: BECAUSE YOU’VE JUST QUADRANTBOUND YOURSELF TO A MASS MURDERER.  
GC: TO B3 F41R TH3 M4SS MURD3RS W3R3 TO F33D H3R LUSUS 4ND 1 W4S 4 S1GN1F1C4NT CONTR1BUTOR TO TH4T 3ND34VOR  
GC: 4ND 1TS NOT 4S 1F L3G1SL4C3R4T1V3 TR41N1NG 1S L1GHT ON TH3 “BAD COP” STYL3 OF W1TN3SS H4NDL1NG  
GC: 1N F4CT 1T WOULD B3 F41R TO S4Y TH4T TH3 “B4D COP, B4D COP” SCHT1CK 1S TH3 V3RY 3SS3NC3 OF L3G1SL4C3R4T1V3 WORK 1N TH1S D4Y 4ND 4G3  
GC: B3S1D3S 1M SURPR1S3D YOU D1DNT GO FOR TH3 MOR3 OBV1OUS SUBJ3CT M4TT3R  
GC: 1 THOUGHT YOU WOULD  
GC: S33  
GC: 1T R1GHT 4W4Y  
CG: FUCKING HELL, WHAT IS UP WITH YOU AND PUNS LATELY. THEY’RE NOT EVEN THEMED, YOU PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR AN ADULT TROLL.  
GC: C4ST1NG 4SP3RS1ONS ON MY S3NS3 OF HUMOR?? HOW D4R3 YOU.  
CG: THIS IS NOT THE POINT. YOU ARE DISTRACTING ME FROM THE POINT. WHILE WE WEREN’T LOOKING THE POINT HAS WANDERED ACROSS THE BLUFFS TO THE CLIFFSIDE, WHERE THANKS TO MY TRAGIC NEGLIGENCE IT HAS FUCKED OFF THE SIDE OF A CLIFF AND LANDED GORILY AND BRUTALLY ON THE JAGGED ROCKS BELOW, NEVER TO BREATHE AGAIN. ALL THANKS TO THE EFFORTS OF ONE TEREZI PYROPE, LEGISLACERATOR EXTRAORDINAIRE.  
CG: THE LONG-LOST POINT IS THAT YOU HAVE GONE UTTERLY BATSHIT INSANE IF YOU THINK THAT ANY ITERATION OF VRISKA WHATSOEVER IS A GOOD CANDIDATE FOR A PALE QUADRANT.  
GC: W3LL SH3S PR3TTY GOOD 4T HORNRUBS >;)  
CG: WOW, TEREZI, THANK YOU FOR THAT UNSOLICITED AND COMPLETELY UNAPPEALING MENTAL IMAGE. IT TOTALLY DOESN’T MAKE ME WANT TO IMPALE MYSELF AND FLING MY STILL-TWITCHING CORPSE INTO THE NEAREST SUN.  
CG: ALSO, WHO THE ****FUCK**** THOUGHT IT WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA TO PUT SERKET IN CHARGE OF AN ARMY.  
GC: 1 OFT3N 4SK MYS3LF TH4T V3RY QU3ST1ON  
GC: 1 M34N 1 4SSUM3 SH3 H4D TO CULL 4 LOT OF P3OPL3 TO DO 1T  
CG: I’M SURE SHE PERFORMS PERFECTLY FINE WHEN FACED WITH CULLING PEOPLE ON THE OTHER SIDE. MY PRIMARY CONCERN HERE IS THAT SHE’LL GET EVERYONE CULLED ON HER SIDE AS WELL.  
GC: TH4TS WHY 1M H3R3 DUMMY  
GC: TO M4K3 SUR3 TH4T DO3SNT H4PP3N  
GC: (TH1S 1S WH3R3 YOU H4V3 TO 1M4G1N3 M3 M4K1NG 4 L3WD G3STUR3 TH4T 1ND1C4T3S MY 1NT3NT1ON TO P4P VR1SK4S F4C3)  
CG: YOU’RE DISGUSTING.  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN GOING TO DO WHEN SHE TURNS AROUND AND STABS YOU IN THE BACK.  
GC: WHY DO YOU 4SSUM3 TH4TS 4 TH1NG TH4T 1S GO1NG TO H4PP3N  
CG: THIS IS FUCKING SERKET WE’RE TALKING ABOUT, BACKSTABBING IS PRACTICALLY AN INEVITABILITY HERE. HONESTLY MOST OF MY HORROR HERE IS SURPRISE THAT YOU’RE WILLING TO RISK THAT OUTCOME. SHE WAS JUST A WRIGGLER WHEN THE WHOLE REVENGE CYCLE WITH ARADIA HAPPENED, THINK OF ALL THE DAMAGE SHE COULD INFLICT NOW.  
GC: 1M 4 B1T FL4TT3R3ED BY YOUR H1GH R3G4RD OF M3  
GC: BUT 1 C4NT TH1NK OF 4NYTH1NG VR1SK4 H4S DON3 TH4T 1 H4V3 NOT 1NT3NT1ON4LLY 1NFL1CT3D ON SOM3 POOR SUCK3R MYS3LF  
CG: I FIND THAT SERIOUSLY HARD TO BELIEVE. LIKE WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT HERE.  
GC: NOT 4LL OF US H4D TH3 LUXURY OF G4LL1V4NT1NG OFF TO 4 SOL4R SYST3M 1N TH3 M1DDLE OF NOWH3R3 4ND SP3ND1NG TH3 SW33PS OF TH31R L4T3 YOUTH PLOTT1NG M1NOR 4CTS OF 1NSURG3NC3 4G41NST TH3 3MP1R3  
GC: SOM3 OF US H4D TO 4CTU4LLY FULF1LL TH3 DUT13S G1V3N TO US BY OUR GLOR1OUS QU33N  
GC: 4ND 1M NOT R34LLY 1N TH3 MOOD FOR R3COUNT1NG TH3 PR3C1S3 3V3NTS OF MY TR41N1NG  
GC: SO 1F YOU WOULD EXCUS3 M3 1 H4V3 4 TRULY 3XC3LL3NT HORNRUB S3SH TO G3T B4CK TO  
  
\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] ceased trolling [redacted] [CG] \--

 

“Is that trollian?” asks Vriska. “I’m asking because you keep licking your palmhusk and snickering every thirty seconds.”  
  
“Just texting an old academy friend,” you lie. It’s probably inauspicious to start off a relationship by such blatant lying through your edible nourishment chewing stubs, but you can’t exactly tell an admiral of her Condescension’s forces that you’re in contact with a wanted criminal and insurgent against the empire. Her job is to skewer aliens, not anti-Condesce troll fugitives, but it’s still not a smart idea.  
  
A notification beeping causes you to take another lick of your screen. Well, well. Speaking of wanted criminals and insurgents against the empire…

 

\-- [redacted] [GA]  began trolling  gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--  
  
GA: I Have Heard The Good News  
GA: If Your New Relationship Can Indeed Be Called That  
GC: 1TS 4 B1T TOO COMPL3X OF 4 S1TU4T1ON TO B3 C4LL3D GOOD N3WS OR B4D N3WS  
GA: Well Congratulations All The Same  
GA: I Would Love To Indulge Further On This Topic But I Have Contacted You For A Specific Reason  
GC: >:?  
GA: Ive Had An Extremely Confusing Trollian Conversation With Someone Who Clearly Seems Familiar With Me But Whom I Have Never Encountered Before  
GC: WHO W4S TH3 CONV3RS4T1ON W1TH  
GA: I Did Not Recognize The Chat Handle But They Said Their Name Was Rose  
GA: Which May Have Been A Code Word Of Some Kind Because It Does Not Even Sound Like A Proper Name  
GA: I Have Been Asking Everyone On This End But We Are All Equally Lost And We Were Hoping You Had Some Insight You Could Share

 

Your eyebrows shoot up so high they clear the tops of your red ocular coverings. You spend a minute or so getting your breathing under control so you don’t alert Vriska, and then you answer. Very carefully.

 

GC: WH4T W4S TH3 TROLL14N H4NDL3  
GA: Im Not Sure Let Me Check  
GA: Oh It Seems It Was TentacleTherapist  
GC: 4ND TH4T DO3SNT R1NG 4NY M1N14TUR3 4UD1TORY 4MPL1F1C4T1ON CL4PP3RS?  
GA: I Confess There Is Something Disturbingly Familiar About The Name  
GA: Thats Part Of My Urgency In My Inquiries Here  
GA: I Feel Like Something Awfully Important Is Happening But I Can’t For The Unlife Of Me Figure Out What It Is  
GA: And This Rose Individual Seemed In Such A Dire Situation Too  
GA: They Implied That They Were Captured Aboard The Condesce’s Ship And Had Gone To Great Risks To Make This Very Communication  
GC: DO YOU TH1NK YOU COULD S3ND M3 4 COPY OF YOUR CONV3RS4T1ON  
GA: Just A Moment Please  
GA: TentacleTherapistEncounter.txt  


 

The conversation Kanaya sends you makes you feel very, very sad. She and Rose were quite serendipitously flushed for each other during the Game, despite all the logistical issues that plagued them. But at least you have some facts to prepare yourself with: John and Jade are free, but Rose and Dave are not.

 

GC: 1M 4S LOST 4S YOU 4R3 H3R3  
GC: SORRY 1F YOU W3R3 3XP3CT1NG SOM3TH1NG MOR3 H3LPFUL  
GA: Thank You For The Effort At Least  
GA: It Just Seems Like This Individual Is In A Great Deal Of Trouble And I Wish I Could Help  
GA: They Are In Quite An Unfortunate Situation  
GA: I Just Hope Its Not A Trap Sent By The Condesce Or Her Minions  
GC: DO YOU H4V3 4NY 1D34 HOW TH3Y GOT YOUR H4NDL3?  
GA: Sollux Said A Lot Of Confusing Husktop Related Words But The Gist Of It Seems To Be That TentacleTherapist Got A Hold Of My Old Account  
GA: You Know  
GA: GrimAuxiliatrix  
GA: From Back When We Were On The Home Planet  
GC: 1 THOUGHT YOUR OLD CH4T H4NDL3S W3R3 4S H1DD3N 4S YOUR N3W ON3S 4R3  
GA: They Are Supposed To Be  
GA: The Good News Is That Sollux Says That If It Was The Empress Who Superseded Our Electronic Safeguards, She Would Have Already Sent Drones After Us  
GA: The Bad News Is That He Cant Figure Out Anything Else About This Person  
GC: MY SUGG3ST1ON 1S TO FORG3T 4LL 4BOUT 1T  
GC: 1TS PROB4BLY B3ST 1N TH3 LONG RUN  
GA: For Me Perhaps  
GA: Not For Rose  
GA: …  
GA: Maybe We Should Change The Subject  
GA: Karkat Is Currently Informing Everyone Within Shouting Distance Of Your Newly Consummated Moirallegiance  
GC: 1M UNSURPR1S3D  
GC: WH4TS THE TOP1C OF H1S MOST R3C3NT R4NT  
GA: He Is Insisting You Have A Danger Kink  
GC: TH4TS 4MUS1NG CONS1D3R1NG H3S D4T1NG 4 R41NBOWDR1NK3R  
GC: SO T3LL M3 MISS SOUR 4PPL3 GR33N   
GC: DO3S H3 3V3R GO FOR BLOODPL4Y 1N TH3 P1L3  
GA: That Is A Most Improper Question  
GA: Do You Really Expect Me To Offer Sensitive Personal Information About Our Relationship  
GC: Y3S  
GA: …  
GA: Mild Bloodplay  
GA: On Special Occasions  
GC: FUCK1NG C4LL3D 1T  
GA: Oh Dear  
GA: It Seems I Was Not Quite Careful Enough  
GA: He Has Been Reading Over My Shoulder

 

Vriska looks up from the addictive strategic palmhusk game she’s playing when she hears your uncontrollable snorting. “Nothing, it’s just—nothing,” you gasp between laughter. She rolls her eyes and pointedly nudges her horn against your hand. You flick her horn (“ow!” she grumbles, swatting at you) and you go back to stroking its curve.  
  
You’re utterly unsurprised when the next notification you get is in angry gray.

 

\-- [redacted] [CG] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--  
  
CG: WHATEVER MY MOIRAIL HAS BEEN TELLING YOU IS A LIE.  
GC: G33 K4RKL3S   
GC: SUCH D1STRUST B3TW33N P4L3M4T3S  
GC: 4ND YOU CR1T1C1Z3 *MY* R3L4T1ONSH1P  
CG: SHUT UP. JUST BECAUSE KANAYA AND I ARE IN DIAMONDS DOESN’T MEAN I HAVE A RAINBOWDRINKER KINK.  
GC: COME ON 1TS COMPL3T3LY OBV1OUS, TH3 1SSU3 1SNT 3V3N D3B4T4BL3 4T TH1S PO1NT  
CG: HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU TO SHUT  
CG: YOUR  
CG: NOOKLICKING  
CG: TRAP.  
CG: I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M TAKING THIS FROM A TROLL WHO TAKES WRIGGLERISH JOY FROM HINTING AT HER CONCILIATORY EXPERIENCES EVERY FUCKING TIME I TRY TO HOLD A CIVIL CONVERSATION.  
GC: T3LL YOU WH4T  
GC: YOU C4N GU3SS MY P4L3 K1NKS 1F 1 G3T TO GU3SS YOURS  
CG: WHY THE FUCK WOULD I WANT TO DO THAT.  
GC: B3C4US3 4LL YOUR OTH3R H4T3FR13NDS 4R3 SO BOR1NGLY V4N1LL4 TH4T 1 C4N T4ST3 1T FROM TH3 OTH3R S1D3 OF TH3 G4L4XY  
CG: I’M GOING TO REPEAT WHAT I JUST TYPED BECAUSE CLEARLY YOUR TASTE SENSORS ARE BROKEN AND YOU WERE UNABLE TO READ MY PREVIOUS STATEMENT: WHY THE FUCK WOULD I WANT TO DO THAT.  
GC: COM3 ON 1 KNOW YOU W4NT TO  
CG: I  
GC: COM3 ONNNN…  
CG: UGH.  
CG: FINE.  
CG: FUCKING FINE.  
CG: I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M DOING THIS.  
GC: B3C4US3 1 4M M3RC1FUL 1 W1LL 4LLOW YOU TH3 F1RST QU3ST1ON  
CG: YOU HAVE A SPIT KINK.  
GC: 3XC3LL3NT TRY BUT YOU H4V3 TH3 WRONG QU4DR4NT, MR CH3RRY COUGH SYRUP!  
GC: C4ST3 PL4Y.  
CG: I AM LITERALLY ON THE EMPIRE’S MOST WANTED LIST FOR SPEAKING OUT AGAINST THE CASTE SYSTEM, YOU REVOLTING EGREGIOUS BULGELICKER AND OH FUCK ME SIDEWAYS YOU PROBABLY GET OFF ON LICKING BULGES DON’T YOU.  
GC: OUR D34L W4S FOR TH3 D14MOND QU4DR4NT, TH4T 1S H1GHLY CL4SS1F13D 1NFORM4T1ON  
CG: RETURNING THE POINT: WHY WOULD I INVOLVE MYSELF WITH TH3 CASTE SYSTEM WITH ENJOYMENT IN ANY WAY, ESPECIALLY IN THE PILE?!  
GC: SO N41V3 TO TH1NK YOU C4N 3SC4P3 TH3 CL3V3R 4ND CUNN1NG 1NT3RROG4T1ON OF 4 L3G1SL4C3R4TOR  
GC: JUST 4DM1T 1T  
CG: YES. YOU’RE FUCKING RIGHT. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?  
CG: BESIDES, YOU TOTALLY HAVE A CASTEPLAY THING TOO.  
GC: WRONG QU4DR4NT 4G41N! TH4TS MOR3 OF 4 BL4CKROM TH1NG FOR M3  
GC: 1 B3T YOU 4ND K4N4Y4 ROL3PL4Y 4S CH4R4CT3RS FROM THOS3 T3RR1BL3 ROM4NC3 NOV3LS YOU BOTH R34D  
CG: WHY DO YOU ASSUME THAT?? WHY DO PEOPLE ALWAYS FUCKING ASSUME THAT???? CAN’T WE ENJOY SOMETHING TOGETHER WITHOUT IT BEING SALACIOUS??????  
GC: DUD3 1TS NOT MY F4ULT YOU POUR OV3R THOS3 BOOKS WH1L3 BLUSH1NG 4ND WH1SP3R1NG FURT1V3LY TO 34CH OTH3R 4ND HOLD1NG H4NDS  
GC: TH3R3 M1GHT 4S W3LL B3 C4RTOONY D14MONDS FLO4T1NG OV3R YOUR HORNS  
GC: 4T L34ST TH4TS WH4T MR SUG4RY Y3LLOW SOD4 S4YS 4ND 1 4M 1NCL1N3D TO B3L13V3 H1M  
CG: YEAH WELL MAYBE YOU SHOULD STOP LISTENING TO WHAT SOLLUX TELLS YOU. FUCK HIM, HE’S SUCH A COMPLETE WASTECHUTE. I’M GOING TO CULL HIM THE NEXT TIME I SEE HIM.  
GC: 1M GO1NG TO T4K3 TH4T 4S 4 CONF1RM4T1ON TH4T 1M R1GHT  
CG: NO. NO, YOU’RE MOST CERTAINLY NOT RIGHT. I DON’T DO ROLEPLAY. IN ANY FUCKING CONTEXT. IN OR OUT OF THE RESPITEBLOCK.  
GC: 1 TH1NK YOUR3 LY1NG  
CG: WELL FUCK YOU TOO.  
CG: BONDAGE.  
GC: CONGR4TUL4T1ONS!  
GC: YOUV3 M4D3 4 CORR3CT GU3SS ON TH3 WORLD F4MOUS QU1Z SHOW KNOWN 4S L3G1SL4C3R4TOR PYROP3S K1NK SP3CTRUM  
GC: YOUR PR1Z3 1S MOR3 QU3ST1ONS  
CG: YOU HAVE A ROLEPLAY KINK TOO, DON’T YOU.  
GC: NO PO1NTS UNL3SS YOU GU3SS TH3 SP3C1F1C TYP3 OF ROL3PL4Y!!!!!!!!  
CG: THAT WAS EIGHT SHOUT POLES, WASN’T IT.  
CG: I HATE EVERYTHING.  
GC: 1TS MY TURN  
GC: 1 B3T YOU L1K3 W34R1NG K4N4Y4S S1GN 4ND COLOR  
CG: THAT’S NOT A KINK, THAT’S A *TASTEFUL AND GENUINELY ROMANTIC GESTURE*. YOU DOUCHE.  
GC: YOUR 1NSULTS H4V3 B3COM3 L3SS 4ND L3SS LONGW1ND3D  
GC: MY 3XP3RT 1NT3RROG4T1ON H4S CL34LY WORN YOU DOWN  
CG: THE FACT THAT YOU CITED THAT AS A KINK MAKES ME THINK YOU’RE INTO IT YOURSELF.  
CG: DON’T DENY IT.  
GC: W3LL  
GC: SORT OF  
GC: NOT R34LLY  
GC: >:[  
GC: 1T US3D TO B3 BUT  
GC: 1TS L3SS FUN WH3N 1TS M4ND4TORY 4CCORD1NG TO 4LT3RN14N M1L1T4RY L4W  
GC: 4S ST4T3D IN 4RT1CL3 E1GHT CH4PT3R F1V3 SUBS3CT1ON 3L3V3N  
GC: TO FORGO W34R1NG MY OFF1C3RS S1GN OR 4NOTH3R M4RK OF OWN3RSH1P 1S PUN1SH4BL3 BY CULL1NG W1THOUT TR14L, OR SOM3TH1NG 3LS3 VR1SK4 D33MS 4PPROPR14T3  
GC: 4CTU4LLY 4CCORD1NG TO TH1S ORD1N4RY 4LT3RN14N L4W DO3SNT 4PPLY TO M3 4NYMOR3  
GC: 1 4M NO LONG3R 4LLOW3D TO BR1NG GR13V4NC3S TO 4 COURT OF L4W S1NC3 4NY CR1M3S 4G41NST M3 4R3 NOW CR1M3S 4G41NST VR1SK4  
GC: 4ND SH3 G3TS TO D3C1D3 WH3TH3R OR NOT TO 4SK FOR 4N 1NV3ST1G4T1ON OR TH3 M4NN3R 1N WH1CH TH3 CR1M1N4L W1LL B3 PUN1SH3D  
GC: 4LSO SH3 OWNS 4LL MY PROP3RTY NOW  
CG: OH.  
CG: JEGUS, THAT’S A SHITTIER SITUATION THAN I THOUGHT.  
GC: 1 M34N 1TS NOT 4 B1G PROBL3M S1NC3 1TS NOT L1K3 SH3S GO1NG TO 4CTU4LLY DO 4NYTH1NG 4BOUT 1T  
GC: TH3 ONLY R34L CH4NG3 FOR M3 1S TH4T MY N3W UN1FORM H4S H3R H4TCH SYMBOL ON TH3 SHOULD3R 4ND SOM3 BLU3 3MBRO1D3RY N3XT TO TH3 T34L  
GC: 1 SUPPOS3 1F 1 DONT W34R MY J4CK3T ON3 D4Y SH3 ST1LL H4S TO PUN1SH M3  
GC: BUT SH3 COULD JUST S3NT3NC3 M3 TO 4N HOUR OF G1V1NG H3R 4 FOOT M4SS4G3 OR SOM3TH1NG  
CG: THAT’S STILL AN EXTREMELY SHITTY SITUATION.  
CG: AND, WOW, IT MUST BE EVEN MORE INCREDIBLY SHITTY FOR THE OTHER SECONDS. THAT’S ESSENTIALLY BEING TREATED AS A SLAVE, NOT A TROLL.  
GC: TH4TS 3SS3NT14LLY WH4T W3 4R3  
GC: S34DW3LL3RS USU4LLY DONT T4K3 SL4V3S LOW3R TH4N BLU3 4ND OR1G1N4LLY TH3 POS1T1ON W4S FOR 4N 3SP3C14LLY F4VOR3D BLU3BLOOD SL4V3 WHOSE JOB W4S TO F1LL OUT P4P3RWORK 4ND OCC4S1ON4LLY P3RFORM CONC1L14TORY S3RV1C3 FOR TH3IR M4ST3R  
GC: BUT TH3N SOM3ON3 R34L1Z3D TH4T SL4V3RY 1S NOT P4RT1CUL4RLY CONDUC1V3 TO TR41TS SUCH 4S UNSH4K34BL3 LOYALTY  
GC: BUT MO1R4LL3G14NC3 1S  
CG: UGH, SERIOUSLY? THAT’S SUCH A COMPLETE PERVERSION OF THE QUADRANT SYSTEM. IT WOULD ALMOST BE MORE TOLERABLE IF IT WAS JUST STRAIGHT-UP SLAVERY. I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M SURPRISED.  
CG: JUST MORE EVIDENCE OF HOW FUCKING TERRIBLE THE EMPIRE IS. AS IF I DIDN’T KNOW THAT ALREADY.  
GC: 4RT1CL3 E1GHT CH4PT3R F1V3 SUBS3CT1ON 3L3V3N 4LSO ST4T3S TH4T 1TS L3G4L FOR AN OFF1C3R TO T4K3 ON 4NOTH3R P4L3 P4RTN3R BUT FOR 4N OFF1C3RS S3COND 1TS 4 CULL4BL3 OFF3NS3  
GC: BUT 4T TH3 S4M3 T1M3 1 DONT KNOW WHY TH3Y BOTH3R M4K1NG L4WS 4BOUT 1T S1NC3 TH3Y SP3ND SO MUCH T1M3 4ND 3N3RGY ON P4NW4SH1NG TH3 TR41N33S 1NTO UTT3R D3VOT1ON 4NYW4YS  
CG: THE TRAINEES GET PANWASHED?  
CG: I MEAN, I’M NOT EXACTLY SHOCKED, BUT.  
CG: I THOUGHT THEY USUALLY THEY DON’T DO THAT TO THE HIGHBLOODED CADETS.  
GC: Y34H 1TS NOT L1K3 TH3Y M3NT1ON TH4T 1N TH3 GOSS1P M4GS  
GC: BUT VR1SK4 S4YS H3R SCHOOLF33D3RS W3R3 COMPL3T3LY UN4SH4M3D OF TH3 WHOL3 TH1NG  
GC: 4LSO 4LL TH3 C4D3TS 4T TH3 OFFIC3RS 4C4D4MY W3R3 4PP4R3NTLY V3RY 3XC1T3D 4BOUT H4V1NG TH31R V3RY OWN P3RSON4L P4L3 SL4V3S  
GC: SH3 CL41MS TH4T TH3Y W3R3NT 4LLOW3D 1NT3RN3T 4CC3SS FOR TH3 F1RST THR33 FOURTHS OF 4 SW33P 4ND TH3Y SP3NT 4 SUBST4NT14L PORT1ON OF TH31R DOWNT1M3 TRY1NG TO SMUGGL3 1N TH3 R3L4T3D PORN  
GC: 3XC3PT TH3Y W3R3 4LL 4BSOLUT3 SH1T 4T 1T B3C4US3 TH3Y W3R3 4LL SPO1L3D S34DW3LL3RS  
GC: SH3 H4S 4 NUMB3R OF 4MUS1NG 4N3CDOT3S  
CG: THE TWO OF YOU HAVE TALKED THIS OUT, RIGHT? TELL ME SHE’S NOT THAT AWFUL OF A MOIRAIL.  
GC: OF COURS3 W3 D1D DUMMY  
GC: 1T W4S B4S1C4LLY TH3 F1RST TH1NG W3 J4MM3D OUT  
GC: 1T M4Y NOT B3 4N 1D34L S1TU4T1ON 4ND 1T M4Y B3 4LMOST 3NT1R3LY H3R F4ULT BUT W3 4R3 M4K1NG TH3 B3ST OF 1T  
GC: 4ND 1F SH3 TR13S TO PULL 4NYTH1NG SH1TTY SH3S 1N FOR 4 C4N3 DRUBB1NG WH4T3V3R 4LT3RN14N M1L1T4RY L4W S4YS  
CG: I  
CG: GUESS I’M GLAD TO HEAR THAT.  
CG: YOU’RE STILL A RAGING DOUCHE WHO CAN’T KEEP HER TONGUE TO HERSELF AND THE SPIDERBITCH IS STILL A MASS MURDERER, THOUGH.  
GC: 4ND W3 DO OUR L3V3L B3ST TO HOLD ONTO THOS3 T1TL3S W1TH BOTH GRASPING APPENDAGES!  
GC: SM3LL YOU L4T3R, K4RK4T  
  
\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] ceased trolling [redacted] [CG] \--

 

\--

 

The reason it’s taking you so long to arrive is that the Condesce forbids any non-military ships with FTL capability to flash into her airspace, so you have to make the week-long slog to approach the flagship. Vriska says she can see the other warships drifting silently when she looks out the window; you take her at her word.  
  
It’s the day before you arrive, and instead of falling asleep with Vriska next to you like you’ve fallen into a habit of doing, you’re leaning against your recuperacoon in your block, alone. You wonder why someone tried to kill Vriska.  
  
You wonder what the human players would think of you now. You replay the footage of Jade and John and the battleship over and over again and wonder what Rose and Dave are thinking right now, and why they remember the Game like you do, but why no one else does.  
  
Rose used the words “when the Game crashed.” Does she know what happened? Your memories of your last night in the Game are fuzzy: you remember your friends dying around you, and a bright red pair of shoes, and a blur of blue that you think was John. Yes, that’s right. John was there, and… Roxy? You think that’s what the light pink human’s name was.  
  
You were dripping blood as you walked, but you kept going despite the pain pulsing in every inch of you, because you couldn’t stop, you needed to talk to John because there was something you had to do before you died.

When your memories of the Game first returned, you entertained the thought that you actually were dead and were just wandering through a dream bubble. But it wasn't like you just appeared in your block in the legislacerative academy, where you first started to remember—you’d spent sweeps growing up and going through Ascension and learning the law and worrying when Karkat and Kanaya and Sollux nearly got caught trying to save Tavros from the culling drones and missing Vriska desperately and passing your exams and generally _living your life_. If anything was unreal, it was the Game.  
  
(You’d wondered if maybe the Game wasn’t real at all, and how you would tell if it was. Well, that’s one problem solved.)  
  
You spend the daytime hours in silence, knowing that if you got into the coon you’d never be able to sleep. The tiredness drags at your bones, but you don’t move regardless. You know that when you step off this ship, you’ll walk into a different world and a different life, one that you’re not trained for.  
  
You’ve wanted to be a legislacerator since you were three sweeps old. It never occurred to you even once to consider a different path.  
  
At the academy, the first half sweep was purely book learning, all theory, no practice. In order to graduate from that first part of the training, the trainees were each interviewed by a schoolfeeder, alone, each sworn to silence to the contents of the exam. The rumor was that it was a practical exam of some kind. It was never substantiated because when a trainee left their interview, they were quiet, ashen-faced, some with tears welling in their gaze orbs. They all refused to talk.  
  
After that, you were cautious when you walked into the interview block, but it didn’t look at all unusual. It was a standard interrogation block: a single lighting grub casting dim yellow light over a steel table, a one-person comfort stub for the legislacerator, and an uncomfortable steel chair with shackles for the witness or suspect. A feeder was leaning against the wall and an unfamiliar troll was shackled to the chair.  
  
You barely even sniffed at the stranger—you knew the legal handbook by heart, and it was standard protocol to treat the suspect as if they were nothing more than wallpaper, to remind them that they were merely a broken cog in Her Imperious Condescension’s glorious machine. Instead you oriented yourself toward the feeder (it wasn’t one you’d had before) and waited politely.  
  
“Name, color, age,” the feeder said, voice flat.

“Pyrope, Terezi, hemocaste: 00827F, eight sweeps old, sir,” you rattled off. He busied himself making marks on his husktop with a stylus. You shifted your weight, running the head of your cane over in your fronds to steady yourself.  
  
He finished and captchalogued his husktop. “You recognize this troll, Pyrope?” He gestured at the shackled troll.  
  
“No sir, I—” You were in the process of turning and sniffing in the troll’s direction when you stopped.  
  
That wasn’t a stranger, that was Rittar Lyria. He’d got the lowest grades in your cohort, with a stutter worse than Tavros’s and a permanently hopeless expression. He’d got into a spat with another trainee and lost, badly—the last you’d smelled him was a week and a half ago, when he was being carted to the mediculler by his on-and-off flushmate.  
  
He looked even worse now. There were lines and cuts on his arms from the handcuffs digging in, he’d clearly missed a few nights’ meals, he was covered in sweat and shaking, and his uniform was in shreds. You couldn’t sniff out his expression, but he smelled terrified.  
  
“Yes, sir, I do know this troll,” you said slowly.  
  
The feeder’s lips twisted, oculars sweeping over Rittar as a hint of disgust wafted from him. “A question for you, Pyrope. Who does a legislacerator serve?”  
  
“The law.”  
  
“Wrong. We serve our empress.”  
  
“But surely—”  
  
“Trying to give you a lesson here, trainee,” growled the schoolfeeder. “The empress is the law. She Who Condescends To Lead Us sets out what is sanctioned by imperial dictate and what is a crime against the empire. Every rulebook you read or suspect you prosecute, that’s Her will. To go against it is heresy punishable by culling. Imagine this, trainee: you’ve been handed a trial, you’re examining the evidence, and you’re starting to think that the defendant maybe hasn’t committed the thing they’ve been accused of. What do you do?”

You paused. Your textbooks always carefully framed the sample cases so that the evidence leans in favor of the prosecution and your schoolfeeders refused to respond to any suggestion that a defendant could be innocent.  
  
“Well, if I was completely, fully sure of the defendant’s innocence,” you began, “then I would approach the authorities administering the trial and—”  
  
“Wrong _again_ ,” said the feeder. “You go into that courtblock and prosecute. Because that is the empress’s will.”  
  
“But sir, if the troll is not guilty, then—”  
  
“Are you deaf as well as blind, trainee? You do not contradict the will of Her Imperious Condescension.”  
  
You pressed your lips together and dug your claws into your palms. You said nothing.   
He took your silence as an answer, though you weren’t sure precisely what kind. “What’s your strifekind?”  
  
You unsheathed your canesword a fraction to show him.  
  
“Good enough,” he grunted. “Trainee Pyrope, kill this troll.” He waved a claw at Rittar.  
  
The fear radiating from your classmate turns into a torrent. “T-t-t-terez-z-zi,” Rittar stuttered, “p-p-please—” He choked off into a whimper. His whole body was shaking, rattling the handcuffs and making them clatter against the steel table.  
  
“Is there a _reason_ for this?” you ask sharply. Your pusher is beating so fast it hurts. “Has the empress decreed this citizen’s death personally?”  
  
The feeder’s trap curls downward. “That’s an order, trainee.”  
  
“P-please, _d-d-don’t_ —”  
  
You drew your blade and cut off Rittar’s head.  
  
Back in your respiteblock, leaning against your recuperation and fighting off sleep, you think that Vriska is probably awake on the other side of the transport ship. You shake your head slowly, resting your nug in your fronds. You have no idea why you feel no guilt for the culling of Rittar Lyria, your first cull at the legislacerative academy, but you keep waking up with a scream halfway out your throat in the middle of the day because you dreamed that you’d stabbed Vriska again. (Recalling the game always makes you feel like there are two different people living in your skin.)  
  
On your husktop, you click on the file Kanaya sent you of the conversation with Rose and read it again.  
  
TT: I know it’s too much to ask after so long apart, and it could put you in grave danger, but I need you to contact Jade or John. If you reach out with your aspect Jade may be able to locate you.  
  
Your trap does that thing where it makes a shape like a question squiggle. Your interactions with Rose led you to perceive her as a highly rational, intelligent sapient being, so she clearly had something plausible in mind when she typed the message. But no one in your session or any dream bubble you visited mentioned anything about “reaching out” with one’s aspect. It seems kind of like hoofbeast shit to you, but you suppose you’re not a godtier. (For a moment you wish Vriska had her memories so you could ask her. Then you remember what happened between you during the Game and you stop wishing that very quickly.)  
  
You sigh. You’re obviously far too tired, your pan is making less and less sense.  
  
It’s nearly evening and falling asleep is not an achievable goal at this point, so instead you drag yourself off the ground and pad over to the wardrobifier. There’s a new uniform set out for you, and when you run your fingers over it you can tell how much more expensive it is. It’s made out of the same cloth as Vriska’s, jet black, silky soft to the touch and capable of stopping a bullet from a low-caliber pistol at ten meters. It’s a jacket with a stiff collar that molds seamlessly over your thorax and a pair of pants, trimmed subtly in teal and cobalt. Your sign is worked into the left side, over your bloodpusher, and Vriska’s is on the right and lined with gold. On the lapel is written _T. Pyrope_ , and then _Ch. Aux. to Adm. V. Serket_ in slightly smaller letters underneath.  
  
There’s a reflecting pane on the wall, so you lick at your reflection and examine yourself. It’s the perfect mix between intimidation, ease of mobility—you could definitely strife someone in this—and status. It’s far nicer than anything you’ve ever worn. You miss your old uniform.  
  
You tap a claw over your flap, considering. You put on your ocular shades, and take your noose and rope from your sylladex and wind it around your waist like a belt. You twirl your cane in the air and slam its point against the ground between your feet in an entirely overdramatic and highly satisfying gesture. And then you take another lick at the reflecting pane.  
  
The uniform is supposed to be subtly stylish, showing off how important you are. The garish red wrecks that illusion completely—a heretic-colored slash across the empire’s professional black. _Better,_ you think, grinning. You can’t wait for some seadweller to see it and start twitching in fury. (You and Vriska are gonna laugh _so hard_.)

 

\--

 

“Just five more minutes,” Vriska mumbles, trying to block out the light. You’re shining a flashlight at her face to wake her up, because she’s really hard to get up in the evenings and also because it’s funny and you are an asshole.  
  
“We dock at the flagship in less than an hour,” you say. “You have an in-person appointment with the empress. You are not going to miss it.”  
  
“Condy can suck my bulge,” she says sulkily and turns over in the slime.  
  
You grab her shoulder and bodily drag her out of her recuperacoon while she shrieks at you and you laugh at her misery. She wipes sopor slime over your ocular shades and tells you you’re an awful, awful moirail.  
  
By the time you’ve wrangled her into appearing respectable the ship has docked and the captain is going through security checks. Now that Vriska’s actually awake her emotions have gone straight to impatience, so the two of you send in an order for someone to come and collect your stuff. After the staff arrives it only takes a few minutes for them to captchalogue your belongings, but it’s a while for Vriska’s.  
  
“Can’t they go any faster?” she complains.  
 “If you had not insisted on redecoration then you would not be having this problem.”  
  
“But that’s no fun.”

“You want to have fun and have other people clean it up for you and have them do it fast, at the same time?”  
  
“Sounds pretty good to me! I mean, they’re literally picking stuff up and putting in a transport modus, how hard can it get?”  
  
You snort. “I’ll remember to make you carry my things for me whenever my sylladex gets full.”  
  
“ _Pretty_ sure you’ve gotten the roles mixed up here—”  
  
The next few minutes are taken up by you tackling her and then the two of you proceeding to play-fight like wrigglers. The only reason you stop is because the staff are giving you weird looks. Also you figure that you’ll need to be professional the moment you leave the ship, so you should probably get used to it starting now.  
  
When the staff finish packing away Vriska’s mounds of miscellaneous crap, she yawns again. “I’m bored. Let’s go speed up the security process.”  
  
You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a thing you can do?”  
  
“Hey, it says ‘admiral’ on my uniform, doesn’t it? Let’s go terrify some lowbloods.”  
  
After Vriska bullies the poor oliveblooded captain into pushing through your security clearances, it’s only a few minutes before the hull doors slide open with a chime. There’s not even time to blink before a blueblood official is hurrying up to you, bowing to Vriska and nodding professionally to you, asking if there’s anything you need, ma’am? No, ma’am? Your quarters are a short walk from here, ma’am, don’t worry, ma’am, there’s a separate route to avoid the rabble—  
  
“There’s something I need first,” you say, interrupting. You pull up the name of the holding cells on your palmhusk and show it to the official. “I have an assignment regarding a group of prisoners held in this location. I need someone to take me there.”  
  
“Of course.” The official waves at another blueblood who’s busy speaking to the captain. The second official jogs over and goes through the same bow-to-admiral-and-nod-to-Second routine, then turns to the first one and has a short whispered conversation.  
  
Vriska is looking at you questioningly. “It’s my assignment,” you clarify to her. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

The second official turns to you with a cheery smile. “I know the way, I can lead you there!”  
  
Vriska takes your frond (subtly, so the others don’t see) and squeezes your palm for a brief second, then lets go. “Have fun with your aliens, I guess,” she says, rolling her ganderbulbs. You can tell by the tone of her voice that she knows something’s off with you, but she’s choosing not say.  
  
You attempt to give her a rough approximation of a smile and turn down the corridor with the official.  
  
There is indeed “a separate route to avoid the rabble”: the floor is one-way glass—real one-way glass, not the cheap trickery kind you get in legislacerators’ interrogation blocks—so the person walking above see the masses of midbloods and security drones swarming on the floor below. You imagine that you’d be hearing the clamor and racket that occurs when large amounts of people gather in one place, but the hallway is completely soundproofed. The speakers play watery sound effects that you assume are meant to be calming, but you’re not a seadweller, so it just feels like someone is dragging their claws over corrugated steel next to your aural shell. It’s not a good accompaniment to the anxiety gnawing at your guts.  
  
The official guiding you keeps a stream of chatter that makes you want to smash your forehead repeatedly against the wall even more than you did before. “ _Wow!_ ” he says, face glowing. “I read about you in Celebrities Nightly! They said the admiral must be really, really good if she’s got that rank, and just an indigo like me too!”  
  
“Actually she’s closer to cobalt.”  
  
The official deflates. “Oh.” Then something else seems to occur to him and he brightens up again. “Everyone’s gonna be so jealous I got to meet you! I mean, we get generals through here all the time, but this is the admiral’s first time on the flagship and everyone on my shift is talking about her! My hatefriend said you and her were already in diamonds before you got assigned to her, is that true?”  
  
“Well…” You’re distracted imagining Dave’s intestines spilling out of his fragile human thorax while a faceless doctorturer watches, but you make the effort anyway. “I wasn’t trained officially as a Second.”  
  
His ganderbulbs go wide. “Oh gosh! That’s so romantic! Isn’t it really romantic?”

“Not really.”  
  
“Oh.” He looks so disappointed that you almost feel bad.  
  
The rest of the walk is spent in silence, thank gog. You take an elevator down several floors and the doors open to a totally quiet hallway. Everything is starkly white—not even the hint of fuchsia that lines the walls in every other part of the colossal warship you’ve passed through. There are steel doors at even intervals along the walls. They don’t have handles or even thumbprint pads, and you realize it must be the new kind of technology that senses your genetic information just by being near you. The hallway stretches into the distance and turns a corner, and it occurs to you that there is a dangerous captive behind every one of them. You wonder how many of them are people just like Dave or Rose.  
  
“The one you need should be just this way,” your guide tells you. He leads you to the two doors that match the numbers you’ve been given. “Voice commands work, it’ll recognize your ID automatically. Just text the staff line if you need any assistance, I’ll be right outside the door so I can—”  
  
“Go wait by the elevator,” you say.  
  
“Oh. Um. Okay. I’ll be waiting to guide you back to your new quarters.” He gives you one last glance and trudges off.  
  
You spend a moment deliberating pointlessly between the two blank white doors before you finally face one. You draw breath into your air sacks. Let it go. Say one word: “Open.”  
  
The door fizzles out of existence like a forcefield. You step through and it reappears behind you. You can tell by the taste of the air in your sniffer that it’s pitch black in the room and you give the vocal command “lights on” out of habit. They turn on silently.  
  
The first thing that hits you is the blood.  
  
It’s not the only thing you smell, the entire block reeks of sweat and dirt and bodily fluids, but it’s the sharpest and clearest. Human blood doesn’t smell as sickly-sweet as troll blood, and its smell changes distinctly based on how coagulated it’s become. Brown, dried blood cakes the floor and the walls, but you feel sticky fresh blood under your shoes as well. There’s no furniture in the room, not even a sleeping slab or shackles on the walls or the floor. Just a 10x10x10 white cube, splattered brown and red so that there are large patches where the white is obscured completely.

And sitting in the corner, legs tucked to her thorax, utterly still, is Rose Lalonde.  
  
She’s older, a little taller, cheekbones sharper. You can’t see a single scratch on her, and for a moment you’re confused, but then you see her godtier outfit and you understand why. There are bags under her eyes from sleeplessness and her bones are stark against her skin from not eating.  
  
It takes a moment before you smell the flicker of surprise and recognition. She’s expressionless when she tilts her head toward you, but even that tiny movement fills the air with the deep, thick scent of sorrow and hate.  
  
“Oh,” she says. She smiles faintly. “Hello, Terezi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, this fic took over 20,000 words for them to leave the transport ship
> 
> i have ch. 4 all written and ch. 5 halfway done -- i plan on finishing up ch. 5 today and starting on ch. 6. (EDIT: it is now "later today," and i have ch. 5 all done. this fic is approx. 43,000 words long so far and its not slowing down anytime soon, oh my god, what is happening)
> 
> ch. 4 will be posted next sunday, as per usual


	4. what immortal hand or eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was weird to write, because the beta kids have lived really different lives that have shaped them into different people with different characters and voices from canon, and i'm not sure if i struck the right balance here. also, this chapter contains no fluff, and neither does the next one :( it's very sad. i'm writing chapter six, and that one has a lot of fluff, though
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: blood, discussions of torture that get kinda graphic every now and then, graphic violence, descriptions of wounds (including a very very short description of eye trauma)

Rose Lalonde is not afraid.  
  
She’s mired in the smell of regret and deep platonic loathing, her blood is spattered several centimeters thick across the floor and the wall, she’s undergone nights, maybe weeks of torture, and yet the one thing you don’t smell is fear. If your sniffer is correct in this, and it always is, then she hasn’t felt a single flicker of fear of her torturers the entire time she’s been trapped in this incarceration block.  
  
That shakes you. It takes you a few moments to remember how your sound-generating throat tendons work, and then you say, “Hello,” in possibly the least climactic manner possible.  
  
“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth,” she says, “but what exactly are you doing here?”  
  
That is definitely a question you do _not_ want to answer. “Kanaya sent me the trollian log,” you  
say. “I—I work here.” Technically it’s not a lie.  
  
“On the Condesce’s warship?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What an interesting choice. If I were the one to reforge the universe, I would have chosen a different working environment.”  
  
You pause. “…I don’t know if this is just a cultural misunderstanding or if I’m missing something important, but I have no understanding of what you just said.”  
  
Her flap twists bitterly. “Don’t try the ignorant act on me, it’s not working. I don’t suppose you’ve come to help Dave out of here?”  
  
You still have no idea what she’s talking about, and worse yet, you don’t know the answer to that last question. You’re paralyzed.  
  
She sighs. “Come on, sit down. It’s been a while, we should catch up.”  
  
You sit down. It’s more like a collapse.

She waits for you to speak. You search frantically for an appropriate starting point for everything that you have to say, and you come up with: “When you contacted Kanaya you said you could escape if you wanted—and you both have your godtier abilities—so why can’t you just grab him and go? And why did you need _Kanaya_ to contact Jade? Is it because they’re both Space players, or—”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then why—”  
  
“It’s not because of their aspects. And I can’t do anything myself because the Game won’t let me.”  
  
“The Game is over,” you say slowly. “It ended.”  
  
“No, it crashed. You broke it.” She says it like it’s obvious.  
  
“ _Me?_ ” The last thing you remember from the Game was trudging toward John while bleeding to death. You’re fairly sure the only thing you were in danger of breaking was your face, from falling over your own feet.  
  
Rose radiates disbelief. “…don’t tell me you don’t know what you did.”

 

 

Your name is Vriska Serket, and you’re very, very happy with your new quarters. They’re huge, completely soundproofed, absolutely luxurious, they’ve got a state-of-the-art entertainment grub, there are tall windows showing the view into outer space, the security is tight. There’s a place for Terezi too! It even has an adjoining door for easy access, and there’s lots of space for her to draw all over the walls, if she’s still into that. It’s been a while, she might not be.  
  
You’re in the middle of directing the servants as they unpack your belongings, but after a glance at the clock you have to wave them off, because you’re in danger of being late to your meeting with Her Imperious Condescension.  
  
You don’t actually want to meet the empress. She kind of terrifies you, and you’re not really used to being around things that scare you, or even thinking the idea that there are, in fact, things that scare you. Unfortunately the choice between going to your meeting and waiting for Terezi to come back so she can accompany you isn’t actually a choice, so soon enough you’re walking down the hallway, trying to pass off reluctance as a confident saunter. You think you pull it off, considering you look _fantastic_ in your uniform. Well, you look fantastic all the time, really...  
  
You turn the corner, flicking your hair over your shoulder, and—what was that?  
  
You stop and turn around, but there’s nothing you can see. Nerves are prickling down your spine. You want to reach for your strife specibus, except you’re looking at nothing more than an empty hallway with fuchsia-colored fountains along the walls.  
  
You could have sworn you saw a flicker of black, like the hem of a piece of clothing fluttering.  
  
_Obviously just anxiety. I need to troll up before I do something embarrassing where people can see me._ You keep walking, ignoring the twitching of your instincts every few feet.  
  
The elevator is nearby. You notice that each of the buttons are inlaid with lapis lazuli and aquamarine gems just like the ones back at the officers’ academy, and you hate everything a little more. Gog, you thought you’d _left_ that fucking place.  
  
You stomp into the elevator and slam the button that makes the doors close faster, scowling when it’s too slow. There’s over fifty buttons with tiny numbers inlaid on them in seadweller amethyst, but there’s one at the very end that’s significantly larger, much more glittery, and bright fuchsia. You press it.  
  
_CHECKING ID_ , reads the screen. You growl at the loading sign, which is, naturally, in the shape of the empress’ sigil. (Even after all these sweeps, you’re still not fully used to thinking of it as the sign of the empress and not Feferi’s. Vaguely you wonder if the Condesce keeps her heiresses’ corpses anywhere or if she just dumps them in the ocean.)  
  
That’s when the arm wraps around your neck.

 

 

“What I _did_?” You stare at her—or rather, you tilt your head and form an expression that usually makes people think you’re staring at them. “Miss Lalonde, as far as the Game goes, I don’t remember anything past the part where I was about to die.”  
  
“Really?” she says. “So you don’t remember the part where you destroyed all timelines, universes and realities in paradox space, including the Game that propagates the cycle through which they are created and terminated, and then you shoved the pieces back together in ways that don’t fit correctly?” She’s laughing darkly, an awful, choked sound. “How nice!”  
  
“You’re not making any sense—”  
  
“John had a power,” she interrupts. “He stuck his hand in a glowing house-shaped thing, and he gained an ability more powerful than any aspect. Do you remember that?”  
  
You’re shaking your head, but then you hesitate. “I think I recall something along those lines,” you allow. There was a conversation in a dreambubble that went something like that, right? Maybe? Your memory is infuriatingly fuzzy, and it's strange, but while you know that statement is true, you don't remember _how_ you know.  
  
“Do you remember that we were in a doomed timeline?”  
  
“Of course I—hang on, you died,” you say sharply. “You died before I did, how do _you_ know what happened?”  
  
Rose’s shoulders are still shuddering with cheap imitations of laughter; you figure she’s allowed a little poor mental health considering she’s sitting inside a cellblock with nothing else but her congealed blood. “No no, not yet, we haven’t gotten to the crux of the matter. Do you possess any recollection of the bit where you convinced John to hand over that power?”  
  
“ _Hand over—_ ” The idea is as ridiculous and far-fetched to you as the idea of John curiously sticking his human frond into a large glowing hive-shape.  
  
“I don’t know how you did it,” she says. “I don’t think the Game does either, the shard of it that ended up inside me isn’t providing any insight. That power you took from him was the soul of the Game itself. It can rewrite timelines. And you broke it, you crashed the Game, you—you sent us _here,_ to this universe where—”  
  
Her words dissolve into a snarl, dripping with bitter, platonic hatred.

“But isn’t this a good thing?” you say, bewildered. “By that logic I saved your life.” And Dave’s, and Jade’s, and Karkat’s, and everyone else who died that day.  
  
“Terezi,” she says, “my life before the Game was not the best. It wasn’t. But now? I have watched my civilization crumble before me. When I was ten years old my mother died to protect me, and I abandoned everything I knew to spend my life running, fighting against an enemy that does not show mercy, that is unbeatable, that—Terezi, four years ago I woke up one day and I had memories where I _befriended_ that enemy, where I—I fell in _love_ —”  
  
She lunges forward, clutching your shoulders, human analogues for claws digging through your jacket. You’re sure that if the cloth was not so expertly made she would draw blood, even through the thicker chitin on your upper arms. You hear her breathing. You stay still, because anyone who grows up in a forest knows not to antagonize wounded, frightened animals.  
  
After a while she lets go of you and smoothes out her dress instead, as if a minor wardrobe malfunction is the extent of her problems. She looks away.  
  
“I’m sorry,” you say, and you mean it. You know what it’s like to struggle with one life while being haunted by the ghost of another.  
  
“I never got the chance to meet the others from my session,” Rose continues. “Not until the memories came back. Godtier powers are noticeable, we found each other, but we are different, Terezi. You’re a Seer of Mind, you know how it is. The choices we make define us. We are not the same people who played Sburb. Our powers didn’t even stay the same. You know Jade almost killed herself pulling the stunt that got us captured? God knows how she must be running herself down trying to find us.”  
  
Your pan is working frantically. “You said there’s a shard inside you. A shard… of the Game?”  
  
“Something like that. It’s the same force that gives players their aspects and decides if a death is just or heroic. You shattered it into a thousand pieces and one of them landed inside me.” She thumps a fist into her thorax, over where her human vascular pump would be. “It lets me know things. Like, for example, I know that Vriska is alive, and your fates are closely entwined, as terribly melodramatic as that sounds.” She shrugs, facegash twisted and bitter. “Don’t ask me how I know that, I just do.”  
  
“You said the Game wouldn’t let you rescue Dave.”

“It moderates my abilities. You know how Sburb works: it loves nitpicky rules and obscure conditionals. I personally have a large reservoir of godtier power remaining, the greatest out of the four of us, but Dave’s powers are insufficient for any sort of viable escape attempt and the Game shard refuses to let me access my Light powers in a way that would assist Dave, or to use them to reach out to Jade.”  
  
“That sucks.” You regret your phrasing the moment it leaves your mouth. Luckily Rose has more important things to worry about than your stunning lack of tact.  
  
“So,” she says. “Will you get Dave out of here? I won’t ask you to contact Jade, I know you don’t know how to use your Mind powers outside of your session.”  
  
You hesitate. You want to be able to say yes. But this isn’t Sgrub, and you aren’t the Seer of Mind, whose job is to use her aspect to help her team and guide them to the correct path. You’re Admiral Serket’s Chief Auxiliary, and you serve Her Imperious Condescension whether you like it or not. And you’re not godtier, either—dying heroically won’t lend you any narrative fulfillment. You’d just be dead.  
  
“I can try,” you tell her.  
  
You smell that she knows you’re lying, but she doesn’t call you on it. “Goodbye, Terezi. I hope we meet under better circumstances.”  
  
You walk out of the cellblock. You turn off the light, leaving her in the dark, and let the door lock silently behind you.  
  
You face the door opposite Rose’s, the one that’s holding Dave, and take a shuddering breath.

 

 

You’re Vriska Serket, and fuck fuck fuck _fuck how did they get behind you_. You slam your elbows back but suddenly the warm body trying to strangle you is just _gone_ —suddenly they’re in front of you, materializing something from their strife deck, and you can’t process how fast they’re moving.  
  
You snap out a kick, steel-toed boots connecting with soft thorax. There’s a pained grunt from the troll attacking you, and—  
  
That is _not_ a troll.  
  
You choke. “What the fuck are you?”  
  
It’s troll-shaped, but with pale pinkish skin and no horns in its long, mussed black hair. No feet coverings, just a black dress with a white asterisk shape on the chest. _Holy shit it’s some kind of alien_ , you think, stunned. It doesn’t look like any of the alien species you learned about in training, so maybe it’s a recently conquered one?  
  
Your moment of shock costs you: in the moment it takes for your eyes to widen it has the barrel of its _weirdly familiar_ rifle digging into your stomach.  
  
“Terezi,” it says, breathing heavily. The barrel is shaking and the creature is sweating, strange alien bones visible through its papery skin. “Where is she.”  
  
A surge of protectiveness shoots violently through your system—you don’t know what this alien wants but like hell are you letting it get near your moirail. You smack the rifle out of its hands before it can react and sweep its feet from under it. It hits the floor hard, hissing, and you stomp down on its thoracic cage. You’re rewarded with the crunch of ribs and a high-pitched scream.  
  
The elevator dings at you. _ID VERIFIED,_ the little screen informs you. There’s a brief lifting in your stomach as the floor moves upward.  
  
You press your heel against the alien’s throat, watch it clutch feebly at your leg while its weird face flushes from being unable to breathe. It twitches, but you can see in its eyes that it knows it’s trapped.  
  
You realize that this is probably the same one that tried to assassinate you earlier. Dammit. (It explains how they got past your security measures; apparently this thing can zap itself past any physical obstacles and into a closed elevator.)  
  
You release the pressure on its throatstem enough so that it can speak, if with difficulty. “What do you want? You get one chance to tell me before I rip out your spine.”

You’re not actually sure this kind of alien has a troll-like skeletal structure, but it seems to be an appropriate threat because its green eyes burn with hate at your words. “Terezi Pyrope,” it spits at you. “Dave's troll, the blind one, with the red glasses. Seer of Mind. _Where is she_.”  
  
“Bzzt. Wrong!” You bring your boot down on where its kneecap should be—it does a relatively good job of muffling its shriek, like this thing is used to having bones broken, but it’s face is twisted up in agony all the same. “What. Do. You. Want.”  
  
Secretly you’re panicking, but you don’t let your captive see that. _What does it want with Terezi? I’m the admiral,_ I _should be the target. Is she okay? What if another alien is getting to her right now? These things can apparently appear out of thin air and she’s a legislacerator, not a soldier, what if she’s hurt and it’s my fault…_  
  
The alien’s gaze lands on the rifle, lying nearby, and you kick the weapon out of reach. (You could swear that’s the same blaster rifle Eridan used to clutch on to when you were wrigglers, but you’re too worried to think about it further.)  
  
“Can’t believe I thought you would be on our side,” it says, coughing. “I’ll kill you later, Vriska.”  
  
It moves quickly, placing the thumb of one hand to the forefinger of the other in a shape of a rectangle.  
  
A sharp flick of its wrist and it vanishes.  
  
You stumble, foot falling through the air where its freakish body used to be. You spin wildly, waiting for it to reappear behind you, but it doesn’t. (The rifle is gone too.)  
  
The elevator dings again. _GREETINGS, ADM. V. SERKET! YOU ARE ENTERING THE THRONE ROOM OF HER IMPERIOUS CONDESCENSION_ , it tells you.  
  
A glance at the room reveals towering walls of solid gold studded with gems and a throne on a raised dais with seats all around it. It’s empty. You should probably be feeling intimidated and impressed right now, but you’re too worried to appreciate the scenery.  
  
Violetblooded guards are standing in front of a smaller door just behind it and they stand at attention upon seeing you. One of them opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him with a wave of your hand. You know you’ll be late, but you can’t help yourself: you stick your hand against the door to stop it from closing and fish out your palmhusk from your uniform, selecting the first name on the list. Your fingers are shaking.

AG: Are you safe? 

It takes a minute before she responds.  
  
GC: Y3S  
GC: 1S SOM3TH1NG WRONG  
AG: I was just attacked. Pro8a8ly the same one that got me 8efore. I’m fine, 8ut it’s some kind of alien I haven’t seen 8efore and they can appear 8ehind closed doors, or any other physical security system on this ship. Some kind of teleporting a8ility.  
AG: It’s n8t out to g8t me, though, it said it wanted to f8nd YOU.  
AG: I thought I took it down, 8ut the thing just disappeared. It could 8e coming f8r you right n8w. I just  
AG: S8rry I  
AG: Just please 8e careful  
  
You don’t have the time to wait for her response, so you shut off your palmhusk and hurry across the empty throne room. The guard bows you through. “Admiral Serket is here, your condescension,” he murmurs respectfully.  
  
The empress is at the head of a long conference table, which is so strangely mundane that it breaks your brain a little bit. A third of the seats of the table are filled, and the others have videogrubs hanging over them, displaying the faces of her remaining generals.  
  
“Oh, there you are,” the Condesce says, propping up her chin with a hand. “Sea, usually when ya get a call from your empress ya don’t just stand a-trout, ya get there _on time_.”  
  
Oh shit it’s your first night on the Battleship Condescension and she’s already pissed at you. “Sorry about that, your condescension,” you say, bowing for exactly three seconds, as is appropriate for your rank. “I got held up. Assassination attempt. You know how it is.”  
  
She doesn’t bat an eye at the word ‘assassination.’ “Where’s your Shell-cond? I been reef-viewing her ray-cords, sounds like a finteresting lil guppy.”  
  
You glance around. Several of the generals seated at the table have their Seconds hovering behind them—some of the Seconds have blood purpler than yours, and they’re all carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone higher than them. (You imagine Terezi trying to look deferential and fight to suppress the sudden laughter in the back of your throat.) “She’s working on an assignment,” you say, pulling out your chair. “Should I call her?”

“Yeah, might as shell,” the empress says. “When this meeting is done I got a few fins to spray to the two of you in private.”  
  
AG: Ch8nge of pl8n, get your ass over here!!!!!!!!  
GC: VR1SK4 1 4M 1N TH3 M1DDL3 OF SOM3TH1NG V3RY 1MPORT4NT  
AG: D8n’t yell at ME, it’s C8ndy’s ord8rs.  
GC: F1N3  
GC: G1V3 M3 4 F3W MOM3NTS  
AG: Ok8y, 8ut I am N8T t8king the 8lame if she’s pissed off.

 

 

You’re Terezi Pyrope, and by the time you receive Vriska’s message you’re very much wishing you were _not_ Terezi Pyrope, because being Terezi Pyrope is a load of hoofbeast shit. You growl at your palmhusk and shove it into the pocket of your uniform, bang your horns against the door several times, and finally suck it up and give the vocal command: “open.”  
  
It slides open silently. You’ve been steeling yourself to walk inside for the past three minutes, but you’re still unprepared for what you smell inside.  
  
There’s blood all over, like in Rose’s cell, but it’s fresher, and… those are open wounds. Dave is hunched up on his side, but he squints at you when you step in and turn on the light. He’s in his godtier outfit—with the silly little cape too, oh, suddenly a wave of nostalgia hits you almost as hard as the smell of rot that wafts from him.  
  
There are cuts and scratches all over his skin. His outfit is ripped to shreds. His grasping fronds are clutching a wound in his stomach that’s clearly been left untreated for a while, from the smell that’s making you wrinkle your sniffer—the dark gash is right through the Time symbol on his thorax. Several of his fingers are missing, and there’s just a dark, blood-dripping socket where his left ocular should be. His hair is grimy and mussed.  
  
“So, I guess this is where I’m supposed to say ‘hey there TZ, how’s tricks’ or something in-character like that,” he says, voice rough, “but I feel like shit right now, so I think I’ll pass.”

“Hi, coolkid,” you say. You’re pretty sure you’re going to throw up. “What happened to your ocular shades?”  
  
“Some asshole torturer dude snapped them,” he says. “That’s my name for him, Asshole Torturer Dude. Sometimes I think it’s maybe not creative enough, except then he goes and pulls out my lungs through my mouth and then has the assholery to look _surprised_ that I don’t fucking survive the process, and then I’m like, okay, Asshole Torturer Dude is pretty accurate. So. Come to my rescue?”  
  
Your silence says more than you want it to.  
  
He nods. “Yeah, okay, I figured. You’re the one who fixed it so Earth got conquered by your evil alien empire in the first place, you’re not gonna help us escape it now.”  
  
“Rose only just told me what happened when the Game ended,” you say. “I don’t remember crashing the Game at all. I am sorry. And I _will_ try to get you out of here, I just… don’t know how long it will take.” Maybe if you say it aloud enough times you'll start to believe it's true.  
  
“Ha. Well, I guess it’s better than nothing. So, what, you’re just going to walk out now and leave us here?” His good ocular narrows suspiciously. “How are you even here in the first place? How come you’re just waltzing in? This is the royal fishbitch’s head warship, isn’t it?”  
  
You smell Dave’s delicious red clothes drenched in the red and brown of his blood. You remember a sweep and a half spent laughing and fighting and awkwardly making out (you kept catching his fragile human lips on your sharper edible nourishment chewing stubs) on a meteor hurtling through emptiness, and you really, really, _really_ don’t want to explain what your new job is. “It’s a complicated situation.”  
  
“Oh. Huh,” he says. “Yeah, I guess that’s the kind of answer you can afford to give when you’re not being slowly tortured for weeks without end. How about you fucking _try again_.”  
  
“I… the empire wants me to secure you and Rose’s cooperation. To turn you into a weapon.”  
  
Dave isn’t even surprised. You just smell anger, the kind of fury that simmers for perigees without exploding, just crawling under your skin. It’s a different kind than Rose’s anger, less directed, more uncontrollable. “Guess it makes sense. Considering how the ‘condense’ or whatever her name is remembers the Game and all.”  
  
_“What?”_

You take a step forward, cane clattering against the cold floor. You’re an inch away from picking him up and shaking him until he tells you what the fuck he’s talking about, except you recognize that he’s about three millimeters away from death, so you restrain yourself.  
  
“Yeah, you didn’t know? She kept gloating at the two of us when we got captured, all _I’m gonna mako REEL shore not to krill ya right now because I don’t want you dyin’ heroically on me_ and shit.”  
  
The Condesce knows. She knows you’re a Seer of Mind. She knows you befriended the humans during Sgrub. She knew that and she sent you to do this. Is it a test? Is she testing your loyalty?  
  
“When you say that the empress remembers the Game,” you say, pusher pounding, “do you mean that she remembers _your_ Dancestors’ session, where the whole empire keeled over and she conquered your planet via a baked goods conglomerate, or do you mean that she remembers _our_ Dancestors’ session, where she was a eight-sweep-old on Beforus?”  
  
He shrugs, then winces at the movement. “I think both. She seemed to be drawing from both of them, like, she was talking about meeting me in the dreambubbles and also about crushing me and my followers from when I was a subversive-anti-Crocker-comic-artist slash guerrilla fighter? She was doing a lot of gloating, but she was also doing it while I was being tortured, and it was my first torture session so it was kind of hard to concentrate through.”  
  
Oh fuck. She knows Vriska is a Thief of Light, oh fuck, that’s why she placed her in the military officer’s academy, isn’t it, because she knows how dangerous a godtier Thief can be, because the Condesce _is/was/would have been_ one. The reason the glorious Alternian empire is so powerful, the reason why its ruler is immortal, is that in another universe Meenah Peixes died on a quest bed.  
  
Dave is waving a frond (with two fingers missing) in front of your face. “You there? Earth to TZ.”  
  
For a fraction of a second you find yourself waiting for Dave to take the stock metaphor and verbally extend it until it’s unrecognizable, but then you remember that this is a very, very different Dave Strider from the one you traded poorly drawn scribbles with in another world.  
  
“It’s a lot to process.” You sigh. “Look, do you think you could explain how the reaching-out-with-your-Aspect thing works? I don’t understand and I can’t do it, but—”

“I can’t either,” says Dave. “All the powers I have are flying and conditional immortality. Other than that? Zilch. Zero. Nada. Pretty sure it’s because you destroyed all timelines except the giant misshapen one we’re in right now, so Time powers don’t exist anymore. I can kinda sense Vriska, though.”  
  
“ _Vriska?_ ”  
  
“That was the name of John’s troll, right? The one that died? We’ve been sensing pulses from her every few years or so, but she’s sent out a few more in the past few days. It feels kind of Thief-y and kind of Light-y, so we figured it was her.” He frowns. “Is that wrong, or…?”  
  
“But she doesn’t remember the Game,” you say. “I’m the only one who does from our session.”  
  
“Dude, seriously? You blocked off their memories?”  
  
“I didn’t do anyth—I don’t remember doing anything like that, and there’s no reason why I would!”  
  
Except, well. That’s not really true, is it? It’s far better that Vriska doesn’t remember you killing her, because then you don’t have to worry about whether she would forgive you.  
  
Dave throws his hands in the air. “Don’t look at me, I’m just quietly bleeding out on the floor, not budging into your personal issues or asking questions like ‘what did you do when you smashed all universes ever and put them back together whatever way you liked?’ It’s not like that’s something that affects me or my whole civilization or anything.”  
  
Your palmhusk beeps insistently.  
  
AG: Wh8t’s taaaaaaaaking so loooooooong????????  
AG: The empress is w8ting!!!!!!!! The liter8l empress is ask8ng difficult qu8stions and getting all judgy over the fact th8t you’re n8t here yet!!!!!!!!  
  
“Look, I have to go,” you say. “I’ll come back as soon as I find something that could—”  
  
“Could you at least lend me a hand here first?” Dave makes a horizontal gesture with his frond against his throatstem. “I’m not a huge fan of permadeath, but temporary death is pretty nice as far as not feeling pain goes, and you show up all healed afterwards too.”

It takes you a moment to realize what he’s asking for. You want to speak, but there’s something lodged in your throat. You know you’re close to tears. (You want your moirail.)  
  
Instead of talking, you nod silently and unsheathe your canesword.  
  
“Huh, weird,” says Dave. “I remember your old weapon had two blades, like, you could crack it open and you’d have a sword for both hands instead of just one. Guess I can ask you about it next time we talk, right?”  
  
He leans forward to give you better access. It just takes a single slash. You don’t go for the throatstem, since there’s no one to hold his head while he regenerates; instead you make a clean slice through his stomach, severing everything except his spine.  
  
You leave the cellblock before you have to think about what you’ve done.  
  
You’re halfway to the elevator where the blueblooded guide is still waiting for you when it hits you. Your flap drops open. You fumble for your palmhusk and lick frantically at Vriska’s past messages:  
  
AG: It’s some kind of alien I haven’t seen 8efore and they can appear 8ehind closed doors, or any other physical security system on this ship. Some kind of teleporting a8ility.  
AG: It’s n8t out to g8t me, though, it said it wanted to f8nd YOU.  
  
The Witch of Space is here.

 

 

Your name is Vriska Serket, and the seats they give admirals are really comfy. Someone should get a promotion.  
  
“—is the main issue here,” one of the generals is saying. He’s calling in remotely since he’s currently on the front lines of the Alternian-Drinerus struggle. The Drinerus species is widely considered to be the feistiest and most technologically advanced opponents to Alternian expansion in the Renaean galaxy cluster, and the battlefields are more or less constantly active. “If your condescension could allow the Fifty-seventh Division access to the nuclear reserves that are largely going unused by, for example, the Hundred Thirty-Eighth—”  
  
“Oh please, Torsha,” interrupts the troll sitting across from you. “The reason my nuclear reserves are ‘largely going unused’ is because I believe in actually using _strategy_ instead of just bombing the enemy into submission.”  
  
“The whole point is to bomb the enemy into submission—”  
  
“Not if you want to enslave them afterward!”  
  
“Even if we put the entire remaining population to work, the total economic gain wouldn’t offset the drain that keeping an open front is on our resources. This needs to end quickly before it becomes even more expensive than it already is. We’re losing a couple thousand dirtbloods a night over here.”  
  
“Well maybe that wouldn’t be an issue if you had been better at your _job_ ,” hisses the troll across from you. Her Second discreetly starts rubbing circles into her shoulders.  
  
General Torsha’s mouth has turned into a flat line, and the empress doesn’t look inclined to interfere in their argument, so you’re pretty sure that this is going to get nasty regardless of how well their Seconds do their jobs. It’s a good thing they’re interrupted before they can get any further—one of the guards pokes his head in and announces, “Admiral Serket, your Auxiliary is here.”  
  
“Here she is!” says the empress.  
  
Terezi walks in, red cane clacking, sniffer working hard to take in the details of the room. Her shoulders are tense and you can tell she’s on edge. You wonder if it has anything to do with what was bothering her before she went off to deal with her aliens; you didn’t have time to grill her on it before, but it looks like you probably should, if it’s affecting her so clearly.  
  
She bows to the Condesce and comes to stand at your side. (You hope no one notices the bow is just a half-second too short for regulation. You’ve got a reputation to maintain here.)  
  
“Al-ray-t, I think this ship is bass-ically over,” says the empress. “I still got somefin to spray to most of you, but my business with Serket and her Sea-cond has got priority as of right now, so all you mothaglubbas betta clear out so I can have a word with them. I’ll be conch-tacting you all to let you know when we’ll be meeting again.”

The generals look annoyed at their dismissal, but also pretty much used to it. When they shut down their vid communications and file out the door, you’d never admit it, but you’re glad they’re gone—the youngest one is about twenty sweeps, and most of them have age written into their skin, not as wrinkles or marks of weakness, but in their jet black chitin and the surety that comes from seeing suns created and snuffed out in less than half their lifetimes. It’s strange to think that somenight you might be as old as them and still be sitting in this same seat.  
  
“So, your condescension,” you begin. “Do you have an assignment for me?” Terezi’s hand sneaks up to rest lightly on your shoulder; you take comfort in the subtle warmth.  
  
“Somefin like that,” she says, leaning back in her bejeweled seat. Gold and fuchsia glints on her fins. “Your moray-eel told you anyfin a-trout the assignment she’s working on?”  
  
Terezi stiffens. “Not much, your condescension,” she says.  
  
“Whale, you betta get on that.” The empress fiddles with a controller until the opposing wall lights up, turning into a massive screen. The display switches to a high-quality image of an unfamiliar solar system, then zooms into a particular planet. The planet is, overall, very boring and nondescript: boring blue oceans, boring green and brown land masses, boring swirly white clouds, with a single boring grey-white moon circling around it.  
  
Terezi hisses in a quick breath.  
  
“This planet,” the empress explains, “is virtually useless. It’s got no resources of finterest and a minuscule population—we’ll probably make a few caegars off selling the inhabitants as novelty slaves, but it’s reel hard to use mind control on ‘em for proper t-ray-ning techniques, they got thick skulls or somefin, and they’ve al-ray-dy gone an established a planetwide resistance that means it’ll be extra difficult to sea-parate the useful ones from the ones that need culling. Beach-sides, novelty slaves can be reel fun, but they don’t do much for the empire as a whole.”  
  
You examine the screen. It shows the planet turning slowly, with red markers on certain locations. The largest one is labeled “Houston, Texas” and it has two symbols, almost like trollish hatchsigns, next to it: a pair of aviator shades and two crossed wands. Another red marker is placed on a tiny green-brown dot in the middle of the ocean, with a leaf symbol and the text “Last Known Location of Jade Harley.” None of those words mean anything to you.

You turn back to the Condesce. “Then what’s the point in sending the armada? If they don’t have faster-than-light travel you can just sort of colonize everything around it and it won’t even notice.”  
  
“Sea, that would be the sandsible thing to do, but there’s a small problem.”  
  
She toggles with her controller again and the screen divides into four sections. Each section shows a symbol paired with a mugshot: the aviator shades and an alien with short hair and matching eyewear… the crossed wands next to another alien whose face is blurry but whose expression of cold loathing is perfectly clear… another alien with short dark hair and a shocked look on his face, like he was caught unawares, next to a simple image of a cloud…  
  
Next to you, Terezi is utterly still.  
  
You’re so busy wondering what’s going on with her that you almost miss the fourth mugshot, which takes longer to load. When it does, it shows an alien with longer hair than the others, who looks… familiar.  
  
It takes you a moment, because aliens all look alike, but when you figure it out you’re leaping out your chair. “Wait a minute,” you exclaim. “That’s the alien that almost shot me in the elevator!”  
  
When you look over, the Condesce meets your eyes for a moment, then turns to Terezi. “What gives?” says the empress, waving in your direction.  
  
“She doesn’t remember the Game,” Terezi says. “I’m the only one from my session of Sgrub that does.”  
  
You stare at your moirail. “What—”  
  
“I’ll explain later, Vriska.”  
  
“Yeah, guppy, you betta find a wave to get those memories back,” the empress warns. “The whole reason I put ‘admiral’ on her uniform is ‘cuz of her codtier capabilities.”  
  
“Hey!” you say indignantly, because although you understand exactly nothing of what’s going on and you’re speaking out against the most powerful being in the universe, you’re fairly sure she just insulted your credentials.

“And ‘cause she turned out to be a ruthless lil fucker at the academy,” the empress amends.  
  
“I’m not sure how to return those memories, your condescension, but I believe I have a place to start,” Terezi says quickly. “I can’t guarantee it, though.”  
  
“Good enough for government work, I sea-pose. You greenies, al-wave such boringly p-ray-cise civil service people. Now, I was gonna ask you weather or knot you managed to get anyfin outta your fronds in the holding cells, but I fry-gured it might be betta to just listen in.” She grins with all her teeth, and you don’t want to sound cliche, but it looks _exactly_ like a shark.  
  
Terezi’s trembling. You’re still confused, but you reach up and tug on her hand so you can hold it in yours. You trace a diamond-shaped pattern on her skin with the very tip of your claw. She squeezes back in return, but she’s not shaking any less.  
  
The Condesce swipes with the controller and screen turns black except for an audio feed. It begins to play.  
  
It starts with an unfamiliar voice: “ _Oh. Hello, Terezi._ ”  
  
There’s a pause, and Terezi’s voice responds: “ _Hello.”_  
  
_“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but what exactly are you doing here?”_  
  
“ _Kanaya sent me the trollian log. I work here_.” At ‘Kanaya’ you turn to face Terezi, mouth forming an O of confusion, but all her attention is on the empress. Her canesword is unsheathed very, very slightly.  
  
As the audio file continues, you understand less and less. It sounds like made-up nonsense, but you know what Terezi sounds like when she’s lying. Her words are honest, shot through with shock and grief.  
  
“ _Miss Lalonde, as far as the Game goes, I don’t remember anything past the part where I was about to die._ ”  
  
“ _Really? So you don’t remember the part where you destroyed all timelines, universes and realities in paradox space, including the Game that propagates the cycle through which they are created and terminated, and then you shoved the pieces back together in ways that don’t fit correctly?_ ” 

You glance at the empress. She’s looking Terezi up and down while she listens, a satisfied smirk on her fuchsia-painted lips, webbed fingers tapping at the table. Not a hint of disbelief or confusion.  
  
When the alien in the recording calls Terezi a Seer of Mind, you feel a shiver travel from your horns to your toes.  
  
And when it ends with Terezi saying _I can try_ to the request to assist in another prisoner’s escape, dread settles into the bottom of your stomach.  
  
The empress clicks off the audio file. “Whale, whale. I’m dis-sea-pointed, for shore, but I’m not exactly surf-prised either.”  
  
To most people it would be imperceptible, but you know her well enough that you can see when Terezi shifts her weight from leaning on you to balanced evenly on her toes, hands resting at just the right spot on her cane. She’s ready for a fight.  
  
“No need to get hostile,” says the empress, chuckling. “There’s still a wave that this can work out without you joining the cell next to your human fronds. Nah, I got appre-sea-ation for the em-ocean-al ties you get during the Game—there’s still a bit of me that’s not used to having long hair—but here’s the thing: if you put some effort in, you get over it reel quick.”  
  
Terezi says quietly, “I’m here to serve, your condescension.”  
  
“Ehh, mebbe,” she says. “You’re smart, I’ll give you that, you’ve got self-prayservation instincts. You know that it’s in your best finterests to conch-vince your human fronds that it’s in _their_ best finterests to learn to use their powers on your moray-eel’s command.”  
  
“My command?” you blurt.  
  
She gives you a sparing glance. “No one else I’d trust but the two of you to strategize properly with Game powers.”  
  
“Your condescension, that’s a very tempting offer,” says Terezi, “but I just don’t think it would work. Dave Strider and Rose Lalonde will die heroically long before they will serve the empire that destroyed their home. The same applies to John Egbert and Jade Harley, if they are ever captured.”

“I’ve heard a lot of people say that in my sand-turies of ruling, and lemme tell ya, when someone says ‘I’ll die first’ they don’t reely mean it.”  
  
“Respectfully, your magnificent harshness, they’ve endured everything imperial doctorturers and xenobiologists can throw at them for several weeks, and they are nowhere near about to cave to your wishes. The Game does not choose just anyone. It chooses the best and the brightest. When the Beforans played the Game, the players were not random trolls—in this universe, those same trolls became the Signless Sufferer, his Disciple, the helmsman currently powering this ship, the Grand Highblood, and _you,_ your imperial cruelty.”  
  
“Flattery’ll get you noweir, guppy,” she says sharply, but she gives a satisfied flick of her fins regardless.  
  
Terezi’s still shaking, but not out of fear. It’s feverish, like there’s an idea locked up in her brain and she absolutely needs to get it out. She slides her blade back into its sheath with a little _snick_ sound and pushes up her glasses. “Jade Harley was just on this ship. She attacked Vr—” She catches herself. “—Admiral Serket while she was coming here. Sooner or later, the Witch of Space will find out where her comrades are, and when she frees Dave, that will give Rose free reign to use her powers. Sure, if you joined in the fight you’d defeat her, but not before she’s blasted half your warship to pieces, and in front of all the imperial newsfeeds no less. These four humans have single-handedly made up for their species’ deficit and held off the might of the empire since they were _human wrigglers_ , and you have brought them to the _heart of your operations_ —forgive me, your condescension, but that was a _stupid_ move.”  
  
The empress’s eyes narrow. You tense up. You still don’t understand what’s happening, and some of the things Terezi’s saying sound like high treason, but you trust her enough that you will fight to defend her if you have to.  
  
There’s a long silence, and then the empress’s smile returns. “Whale, that’s what I hired ya for, didn’t I? And you barely ten sweeps. Mind powers are pretty shrimp-pressive, I gotta admit.”  
  
“Thank you, your condescension.”  
  
“I take it your recommendation is that I just let ‘em go, back the shell off their lil planet, and forget the whole thing happened?”  
  
“Yes, your condescension. You risk the stability of the entire empire otherwise.”

“I’ll conchsider it. I still think that sprayin’ I’ll leave their planet alone if they serve the empire could be a pretty effective tactic, but I’ll conchsider it. Now, you got a few jobs: you’re gonna take a look at Serket’s military assignment and start developing strategy, you’re gonna talk to the Lalonde human and see if you can return Serket’s memories, and at every stage of that you’re gonna re _port_ back to me.”  
  
“Of course, your condescension.” Both you and Terezi let out a shaky breath.  
  
“But,” adds the empress, “there’s the matter of your disloyalty to deal with.”  
  
Your breath freezes in your lungs.  
  
She picks up a palmhusk. Swipes at the screen. Holds it to her fin. “I need a few clownfishes up in my throne room, ya hear? Got a lil guppy that needs a few lessons in imp-eel-ial authority.”  
  
Oh shit she’s calling for the subjugglators. You stand up quickly. “Your condescension, please, I can punish my Second for any—”  
  
“Oh shore, like you two aren’t drowning in diamonds up to your chins,” she scoffs. “It’s high time I made up for all that Auxiliary conch-ditioning you missed out on while you were off at lawyer school.”  
  
There’s footsteps at the door and you whirl around—the empress grabs your hair and slams you down. Your head hits the table and blistering pain rips through you while your peripheral vision grows dark, but you’re used to fighting opponents twice as strong as you, so you twist your body and bite into the flesh of her arm.  
  
She yells, more surprise than pain, and swats at you like you're a bug. You’re sent flying across the room (she’s stronger than any violetblood you’ve ever fought), but you scramble up again, ignoring your dizziness.  
  
Terezi’s hurt. An absolutely _giant_ clown has his awful rainbow-drenched clubs out, and Terezi—she’s on her hands and knees, gasping—her glasses are snapped in half, her cane’s too far away—  
  
You feel it when the chucklevoodoos reach out. You react instinctively, shoving them as far away from your mind as possible, but then you realize they’re not aiming for you.  
  
Terezi starts to scream.

It’s more of a wail—pure terror, given voice. You launch yourself forward and reach out with your powers at the same time, grappling at the oily black tendrils digging into her brain, pulling at them, trying to get them out, except there’s just too many of them, and—  
  
Something smashes into your skull from behind. You fall into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor jade :( she doesnt deserve this, she's just trying to help
> 
> ive been sorta behind in my writing bc of Life Issues, but its ok because i have a ~*~buffer~*~ so hooray for that


	5. and what shoulder, and what art...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: blood, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic instances of weird hallucination-like mental torture. also vriska does mean things to people that dont deserve it and there is no fluff whatsoever :( but at least theres plot stuff! i like writing plot stuff
> 
> THERE'S ONE BIT THAT IS SIGNIFICANTLY MORE GRAPHIC THAN THE REST and it includes eyelid trauma and self-mutilation, so I PUT DASHED LINES IN THE PARAGRAPH BREAKS BEFORE AND AFTER IT so you can skip it if you like. its only 400-500 words and you wont miss any major plot stuff

Your name is T  
  
er  
  
is Ter        ope  
  
it’s            ezi Py       e          and you don’t know where         are  
  
What are you going on about? You know exactly where you are. It’s dark, on this meteor floating through nowhere on its way to nowhere, and Vriska is about to get everyone killed. The phrase is “know her better than the back of your frond,” but the back of your frond is just skin plastered to the outside of your bone, and you know her better than the inside of your lungs.  
  
The wind smells like darkness and vengeance. You never were good at using your Mind powers, but you can feel the choices whirling around you—pressure building up in your thorax, the focal point of this timeline shivering down your thoracic cage, down your grasping fronds, swirling around your blade.  
  
She’s grinning as the coin comes down. She’s betting that you don’t have it in you to make the culling blow. She’s wrong.  
  
Your aspect pulses behind your oculars and there’s the _snick_ of your blade leaving your cane and  
  
you’re in a different kind of                 darkness         and  
  
  
  
  
  
dark            in your lungs, in your pusher                 silent           dark  
  
if you concentrate you can feel the fear     it curls slowly through your fragile flesh  
  
mostly you let it     let go and            and     and        and  
  
analyzing ( _it’s taking roots, it’s controlling you slowly_ ) hurts                      so you don’t  
  
blank                    where you used to be  
  
empty white  
  
it takes mustering every bit of strength you have left in your body to launch yourself out of sleep.  
  
You wake with heaviness in your limbs. Your specs are gone and your sniffer feels strange. There’s just fuzzy shapes around you, and then you concentrate and they resolve into trolls: large, dark hulking shape before you, snarling in surprise and anger. There are more trolls behind the first, and you hear “ _holy fuck the greenie’s awake_ ” and “ _well, put it back under then!_ ”  
  
you cry out for Vriska, but                     she doesn’t come.

 

  
  
Inside your pan, you watch as Rose and Dave are murdered again and again, resurrected every time and brought back for more. Karkat and Kanaya and Sollux and Nepeta die in the Sufferer’s burning iron chains, screaming. Vriska’s warship is shot to pieces by aliens and she’s sucked into cold vacuum, frozen instantly.  
  
Sometimes you have moments of clarity—you’ll be dreaming about your wrigglerhood treehive burning and the sun coming down to swallow you, and once in a while something will just click in your pan, and you’ll stay still as the fire rages, unharmed, knowing that the pain isn’t real, it’s just a construct of the voodoos invading your mind. Then your certainty wavers, and you’ll tremble and lose your grip on what’s imaginary and what’s not and then  
  
it’s dark            and filled with fear, sometimes    and  
  
sometimes it’s not and           those times it’s just blankness, empty whiteness  
  
in the                    spots where usually your awareness is, and there’s             a feeling like  
  
numbness, but not quite because             you feel like you’re not  
  
quite                            real  
  
just                        dissolving        into  
     
        nothing

 

 

\----------

 

 

Only half of your pan is asleep. The other half is awake. Well, neither part of you is any sense truly conscious, but you are up and moving your appendages the way they tell you to, even while insane visions bounce off the insides of your skull.  
  
At this point your torturers have moved on from breaking your mind apart and have started the actual conditioning process. They inform you of what they’re doing each step of the way, their sing-song oscillating tones melding with the hallucinations unfurling inside your pan. They’ve already got to work on your frontal lobe by the time they start messing with pain receptors, so when the hurting starts you just feel grateful for it, and then they make you ask them for more.  
  
In the waking world they have you cut yourself open over and over again, with a mediculler on hand to tend to the wounds they don’t intend to be permanent. First they start with your claws, handing you a dull knife and watching while you dig the points deep into where the base of the claw meets the skin. Then they move on to your upper arms, where the chitin is thicker, before moving to more sensitive areas like the curve of your aural flaps. There’s a rumbled disagreement, and finally they decide to start on your ocular lids: they have you do a test cut, a tiny slice that burns like hellfire, to ensure that the mediculler can heal it easily, before they make you cut off your eyelids and regrow them seven consecutive times.  
  
It’s more pain than you have ever felt in any version of your life. Dying didn’t hurt like this. The first and second times they have you cut your ocular lids you jerk away from your knife, but your self-preservation instinct cedes to your need to obey more and more each time, until after the seventh they decide your obedience is satisfactory.  
  
They have the mediculler look you over to make sure there are no marks or open wounds left, and then they start on the permanent part.  
  
They order you to cut in a certain pattern on your left shoulder, deep enough to leave a lasting scar. They show you the pattern. You nod and comply.  
  
They look at it, frown. It’s not neat enough, they tell you. They heal it and have you do it over again. It’s twenty-seven times before they decide it will leave a properly neat and clear mark. Then they give you a second pattern and have you do the same for the right shoulder. You do this one better than the first—your pan is still largely occupied elsewhere, but at this point they’ve figured out how to trigger your loyalty complex, and you want to perform your duties well, as a loyal servant of the empire would.

 

 

\-----------

 

 

Your mind wanders through terror after knee-wobbling terror. You’re dreaming that your treehive is burning when suddenly your pan jumps tracks.  
  
You’re on the meteor sitting next to Dave, and he’s just alchemized a tablet and you’re taking turns drawing. It’s hard to recall what you were doing before this or exactly how old you are, and there’s a part of you that recognizes that lack of knowing as vitally important, but it’s just a wisp of suspicion that disappears quickly.  
  
He’s sticking out his tongue in concentration, putting the final touches on a document. “There,” he says. “A work of art that meshes the realms of horrific 1970s fashion, internet memery, and my own artistic genius. I am the master of MSPaint, it is me.”  
  
“Not for long, coolkid! Just wait until I get my fronds on—Dave?”  
  
He’s started coughing, big, body-wracking coughs, and the breaths he takes in between sound like a clogged meal-preparation cleaning and drainage system. “I’m fine,” he gasps when he can breathe, but then he’s coughing again.  
  
“If you spit out your air sacks on top of my husktop I’m never forgiving you,” you say. He tries to say something in response, but he’s coughing too hard and settles for providing you an exclusive view of his raised middle finger.  
  
He coughs especially loudly into his sleeve, and you notice a stain growing on the cloth a shade darker than the red of his shirt. “Huh,” he says, laughing nervously. “Is that blood?”  
  
“Yes. it is,” you say, frowning. You’ll never get used to that particular smell. “Have you swallowed any razor blades lately, or…”  
  
He’s coughing too much to answer, his too-skinny thorax shaking. The bloodstain grows. His shades clatter off and he tries to raise an arm to shield his oculars, but he doesn’t have enough strength. He coughs again. Blood begins to drip from his lips at a constant rate, pooling on the ground, glistening like rubies. It just keeps coming.  
  
“Dave!” you shout, reaching out for him, but his form is turning staticky and pixelated. He winks out of existence, leaving only a wet circle of human-red blood on the cement floor.  
  
Your breathing comes roughly, and you extend a frond, trembling, but there’s nothing there. He’s gone.  
  
You stand up and go to the door. It creaks. The lights are off in the hallway outside.  
  
It’s deserted and the air smells like staleness and rot. You start walking fast, cane clacking away in front of you, looking with increasing panic for any sign of life. _What if they’re all dead again, what if Karkat’s bleeding out on the roof, what if—_  
  
At the end of the hallway is a door. It’s not a normal door; it’s set into a facade with a series of twelve different squares like a window. You sniff again, and it looks like the door to your treehive back on Alternia, and then it shifts back to the door you walked through when you won the Game.  
  
“Well?” demands a voice behind you. “Open it!”  
  
You turn around. It’s Vriska. She’s wearing her uniform with the steel-toed boots and the jacket with blue and gold embroidery. She doesn’t have her robotic arm, though, and her vision eightfold blinks at you where her patch used to be. She’s not looking at you with an expression you recognize. When she’s mad at you, she gets furiously emotional, with a whole universe of ego jam-packed into her glare, and when she’s just teasing you she’s got an edge of softness to her ordinarily-cruel grin. Her expression is just… cold.  
  
The door goes staticky and pixelated, and then it goes back to being solid again. You reach out to push it open, but then you stop. “Why?” you ask, turning back to her.  
  
Her blow hits you with the force of a truck. Your head whips back, slamming into the door. Stumbling, you almost fall to the floor but force yourself to stay upright. You touch your face and feel the bloody marks where her claws tore open your skin. They’re deep.

“Do as I say,” she says, and stamps her foot down on your ankle. You howl as your bones crunch, lurch and try to get away, but you can’t. You reach for your weapon—it’s not there.  
  
You reach behind you, thinking to open it and get it over with. When your fingers brush the door it feels like static electricity is running up your appendages, and suddenly you can see, actually see, images on the back of your ocular lids. Dave making a silly joke and you snickering. Karkat making hurried excuses at top volume, blushing red. Kanaya recapping her lipstick and smiling at Rose. In another, more real universe, grey text unfolds on your screen, Karkat telling you he has a plan to escape. The imperial newsfeed that announced Kanaya’s death (“UNKNOWN JADE AVOIDS CAVERN ASSIGNMENT, IS CULLED”) and then the vidchat with Kanaya where she showed you her new rainbowdrinker glow powers. Sollux going on at length about cybersecurity measures while you make fun of him for being a nerd.  
  
You take back your frond, hissing breaths in and out, trying to ignore your ankle. “My memories,” you say, gritting your teeth against the pain. “You want my memories.”  
  
Vriska’s oculars narrow. “I said—”  
  
“You’re a hallucination induced by the empress’s subjugglators to retrieve any anti-imperial intelligence I possess,” you say. “Nice try, but no elongated smoking device.”  
  
The floor beneath you dissolves into white emptiness. You fall.  
  
A few seconds later you recognize it as a trick meant to disorient you and take away your awareness of what’s happening, so you push back. For most trolls it wouldn’t have worked, but you have a mind used to navigating the twists and turns of alternating timelines, so you have no problem pushing yourself into wakefulness.  
  
This time you’re ready. You launch yourself off the steel platform and barrel into the first troll you smell. It’s like hitting a wall of cement—you bounce, orient yourself toward the nearest exit, and take off. You’re aware on a subliminal level that there’s no point in running, but the rest of your pan is piloting off chucklevoodoo-induced primeval terror.  
  
A massive fist wraps around your neck, yanks you back. You choke, face going teal, gasping.  
  
“Hey, cut that ship out,” says a voice sharply.  
  
The choking relents enough that you can breathe. You’re still being dangled several feet off the ground by your neck. In between kicking frantically and desperately huffing in air you realize that the Condesce is sitting on a comfort stub against the wall, her culling fork leaning casually beside her.  
  
“Now look what you’ve gone and done, now a mediculler’s got to look her over before I hand her back to her gillfriend,” she says to the troll that's got you by the neck.  
  
“Deepest apologies,” rumbles the subjugglator.  
  
“Come on, guppy,” says the Condesce, addressing you this time. “Where’d you even think you were running to? Your lil moray eel? You ain’t leaving my warship anytime soon, fishter. Now I’mma tell my clownfish here to let you on down, and you’re gonna do the smart thing and stay right here, got it?”  
  
You nod quickly. The clown lets go abruptly and you fall to the floor in a heap.  
  
“Look, you’re a reel smart gill, I should know,” the Condesce is saying, “so I fry-gure you under-sand that it’s time you gave up and let my experts do their job.”  
  
“Never,” you spit. So dramatic. Karkat would be proud.  
  
“Ha! Oh, ain’t that the _cutest_ lil glubbing thing. Shell you what. I wanna have a reel good working relationship with you once you’re done with your conch-ditioning pier-iod, so I’ll mako you a deal. Lie back down on that table and I won’t even psychologically torture you much for tray-ing to escape, mmkay?”  
  
You’re surrounded by hulking, impossibly strong enemies, being threatened by the most powerful individual in the empire, and the reality of your situation is beginning to sink in. _I can’t let them see my memories, she doesn’t know about Karkat and the others, I can’t betray them. Thousands of trolls would die._  
  
“Allow me the sanctity and privacy of my own memories,” you rasp. “Surely you would give me that much.”  
  
“And why would that be, guppy?” She’s laughing.  
  
“ _Because I know that Feferi Peixes is still alive._ ”  
  
Her laughter dies. She goes still.  
  
“And you don’t trust your mindfuckers enough to let them see where she is inside of my memories,” you say.  
  
It’s a lie—you don’t know where Feferi is, you just have a hunch that her lusus would never allow her to be culled. The continued existence of trollkind is highly compelling evidence towards Feferi’s continued existence.  
  
There’s no pointless _you’re bluffing_ arguments, or _that’s impossible_ , or _of course not, what are you talking about_ , because the Condesce is ancient like stars and she knows not to show weakness.  
  
“Shell, guppy,” she says as if you're discussing something as trivial as the weather, “you’ve got yourshellf a deal.”  
  
“Thank you for your mercy, your condescension,” you say. You tilt your head in deference and hate yourself for every syllable.  
  
One flick of the empress’ finger and an unknown troll is hauling you up. They manhandle you back onto the steel platform (it’s cold, several degrees colder than Vriska’s skin on yours) and press a claw warningly against your bare neck. You lean back, a perfect picture of compliance.  
  
You feel the oily dark tendrils returning, slipping into the cracks of your mind. You close your eyes and fight the urge to vomit.  
  
“Sea, that was easy, wasn’t it? Aww, you’ll be _such_ a perch-fect little sole-dier.” Her tone changes, directing her words at her psychics. “Tear her mind into painful throbbing pieces, clownfishes, and if you go _one step_ toward her memories I’ll rip out your spines.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
You are Vriska Serket, and you are made of fury.  
  
The empress knocked you out, _stopped you from saving Terezi_ , and you wake up in the mediculler bay with an oliveblood fussing over you. It takes you half a second to remember why you’re there, and then you bite off the oliveblood’s fingers. Your teeth go right through the flesh and snap the bone with ease; you spit the severed digit out as you leap to your feet, then toss the tray of medical supplies into the wall and the oliveblood right after it.  
  
Distantly you hear shouts and the thud, thud, thud of guards racing toward you. When the first indigo gets near you materialize your sword from your strife specibus and slice through his guts. Your blood is fire, your skin is paper, you are set alight.  
  
You’re out in the hallway and you don’t know where you’re going other than _you have to find her, she’s hurt, she was screaming._ Terezi isn’t there to raise her eyebrows at you, smack you with her cane until you listen to sense, so you leave a path of rubble and terrified workers in your wake.  
  
Bright treason red is fuzzing over the edges of your vision. The words _this is your fault, this is your fault_ throb in your shoulders and palms and the bases of your claws, and you need to _tear, destroy—_  
  
You barrel out of the hallway and burst into some kind of large room, there are trolls everywhere, where do you go, you need to go—there’s a growl rumbling out of your thorax and there’s a weird feeling on your claws. You look down and see they’re drenched in more than one blood color. Everything’s getting blurry, but there’s still a bit of you in your mind that says _wait, stop_ when you see the figure that’s walking toward you. Why are they walking toward you, everyone else is fleeing, why are they fleeing? Oh wait, it’s because of you, you remember it now, someone reached forward to calm you down and you _tore their fucking arm from its socket—_  
  
Focus, you need to focus, you need to _get to Terezi_. The person in front of you is in a uniform that looks like yours. You’re having trouble seeing distinct shapes, but you see gold glinting on their fingers, their fins.  
  
“—shit,” they’re saying, disgusted, “We need some knockout gas here—”  
  
You’re shivering violently, claws twitching to rend tissue and break bone, fighting to keep your feet rooted. When you hear that, your resolve breaks and you launch forward, snarl tearing out from behind bared teeth, and—  
  
—it smells sickly sweet. You choke, gurgle, knees hitting the floor, queasiness washing over you in a wave. For a hot second the rage in your body struggles against the drug, trying to burn it out like your highblood biology is supposed to, but bioengineers knows what they’re doing.  
  
As the world swirls into blackness again, your thoughts are _I failed, I failed, I failed,_ circling around each other, around and around again and again.  
  
  
  
  
When you wake up again, this time you’re in your new quarters with a headache and the urgent need to vomit. There’s nothing like spending half an hour kneeling grumpily over a toilet to stop a resurgence of highblood rage.  
  
Your training taught you how to work effectively while in fear for your life. Well, not so much “taught you,” more like “let you get yourself culled if you were’t up for the challenge.” You’re not afraid for yourself—the only thing the Condesce has done to you is knock you out when you tried to go after her clowns—but you are filled with gut-aching, mind-twisting terror for Terezi.  
  
Either way, the trick is to go cold and controlled. Work towards a goal, not towards your instincts.  
  
Right now your goal is stop feeling like deep-fried shit, so you wait until your stomach is done rejecting whatever they drugged you with after you took out half the inhabitants of the officers’ mediculler wing. You’re kind of embarrassed about that little stint now that you’re sane enough to remember it… it’s not that you don’t object to tossing around a few trolls when you’re pissed off, but the point is to fuck up the guy who tried to fuck _your_ shit up, not some random nurseradicator that didn’t move fast enough. (Terezi would probably be disappointed in you.)  
  
Damn, you didn’t even think you had the biology to go into a rage like that. You never had anything close to an incident back at the military academy, even while your peers were pirouetting off the handle at the tiniest little things. The best of your competitors could control it, ride on the physical boost from the hormones and adrenaline and keep their heads clear enough to act with precision.  
  
That was another of the admirals who gave the order to take you down, wasn’t it? And that performance of yours was definitely not “precision,” it was more like a scene from an old-school casteplay diamond porno. You have no idea how you’re going to face your peers in the evening. (Because they are your equals now, right? You’re still having trouble believing it, but, well, the Condesce said so and who are you to argue.)  
  
(Terezi tried to argue.)  
  
If Terezi were here she’d laugh at you for hours. But, well. She’s not.  
  
Your husktop is beeping insistently, so you groan to yourself and drag it over to the ledge of your recuperacoon (which is so luxuriously gigantic you could fit an ashen threeway inside), since you’re aching all over and nice cold slime sounds fantastic right now.  
  
\-- )(—ER IMP———ERIOUS COND——ESC-ENSION [)(IC] began trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \--  
  
How the _fuck_ did she get your private handle.  
  
)(IC: feelin betta  
)(IC: not gonna lie t)(at was adorabubble as S)(——ELL  
)(IC: all stereefotypical pale romance  
)(IC: be reel fuckin annoying if it kept )(appenin t)(oug)(  
)(IC: but t)(ats w)(at s)(ellconds are for  
)(IC: main point )(ere is t)(at youll get your gillfriend back reel soon so dont flip your s)(ip  
)(IC: usual time for a sandard conc)(ditioning session is five nig)(ts  
)(IC: your lil diamond guppy got mind powers like ma)( doctorturers aint never sean before so s)(ell be R——-E-EL )(ard to break  
)(IC: clownfis)(es were gettin excited aboat t)(e c)(allenge but i just dont t)(ink t)(ey got t)(e preseasion for t)(e job  
)(IC: precision  
)(IC: got kinda )(ard to reed rig)(t t)(ere saury  
  
You want to be furious enough to throw the husktop to the ground and smash it into sparking computer grub chips, but you’re just wrigglerishly, desperately relieved. _She’s alive, she’s alive, thank all nonexistent bullshit gods…_  
  
You know how imperial mindfuckers work, so you know she’ll come back different, scarred, her mind in little compliant pieces.  
  
But she _will_ come back.  
  
)(IC: anywave ill let em at it for a few nig)(ts and sea w)(ere t)(ey get before i assign it to someone wit)( a bit more expierience  
)(IC: t)(eyll get your darlin gill sorted out reel nice and t)(en itll be smoot)( sailin from t)(en on  
)(IC: ill even t)(row in some psyc)(ic antivirus softweir  
)(IC: no psyc)(ics will ever be able to manipulate t)(eir wave to state seacrets via your gills brain t)(ats for shore  
)(IC: dont worry youll )(ave your own private backdoor t)(roug)( )(er mind  
AG: I don’t want a priv8 8ackdoor into her head.  
AG: Wh8ther or n8t I have a priv8 8ackdoor into her head is my LEAST concern right now.  
)(IC: dont be sealy  
)(IC: its good plannin a)(ead and its sandard for all shellconds whose offis)(ers )(ave psych)(ic ability  
  
You’re calm. You are acting calm and logical about this situation, because the empress is texting you on your private line and you can’t afford to get pissy at her because then you and Terezi would be in even deeper shit than you are already. You are so tranquil that placid lakes in valleys sequestered by snowy mountaintops and pine trees are envious of your sheer tranquility. Terezi would be so proud of you.  
  
)(IC: listen guppy i got an ASSIGNM——ENT for you  
)(IC: you gotta go down to t)(e prisonblocks for me and talk to t)(e violet colored )(uman broad  
)(IC: rose lalonde  
)(IC: s)(e knows s)(it aboat w)(at teresea did to mako t)(e game go so dramatically sidewaves, t)(at means s)(es probably got an idea for )(ow to get your anemonemories back  
AG: My what?  
)(IC: AN——-EMON-EMORI-ES  
)(IC: )(OW MANY TIM—ES I GOTTA R——-EP-EAT MYS)(—ELF )(-ER-E  
AG: You mean “memories”????????  
)(IC: S)(UT T)(-E FUCK UP B——-EAC)(  
AG: Right aw8y, your condescension.    
  
\-- )(—ER IMP———ERIOUS COND——ESC-ENSION [)(IC] ceased trolling admiralGrandstander [AG]\--  
  
With that, you return your husktop to your sylladex and slump back into the slime. You’re done for the night. The empress can do whatever she wants to you because you ache all over and also you are a useless piece of shit who can’t do anything to help your palemate and you want to not be thinking about it for a solid couple of hours. You are not getting up.  
  
And, because your life is the worst life ever, that’s when the doorbell rings.  
  
It’s this obnoxious watery chime sound that some brinesucker totally thought was a great interior design choice. You let out a loud, drawn-out groan that is probably beneath your station. Wait, no it isn’t, from personal experience you can 100% say that the more royal the troll is, the more likely they are to be a whiny little asshole.  
  
You wait for whoever it is to go away, and after at least sixty seconds you relax. You let yourself slip under the slime, feel it ripple through your hair and lift up the places where it’s become matted over the last few nights.  
  
Another doorbell chime.  
  
You groan again, voice muffled by the sopor. You launch yourself upwards, fling yourself over the slide, summon your UltraKleen FastWipe^tm towel device from your sylladex, and stay still for exactly twenty-three seconds as it whirlwinds around you soaking up slime. Then you march forward and wrench open your door.  
  
“What?” you demand.  
  
It’s some tealblood, maybe a bit greener blood than Terezi, with the characteristic noose-as-a-belt that marks a legislacerator. He’s skinny with a bit of a slouch and he’s got close-cropped hair. You give him a short once-over and dismiss him as unthreatening and unimportant.  
  
“Many apologies for disturbing you, Admiral,” he says, bowing. “I hate to intrude, but it’s somewhat urgent.”  
  
“Yeah? Okay, you’ve got eighty-eight seconds to convince me.”  
  
“It’s about Chief Auxiliary Pyrope, ma’am.”  
  
You stop. You smile, as politely as you can fake it. “Come in.”  
  
The legislacerator walks into your quarters with the same cautious precision that Terezi does. He has the same pretentious little tilt to his head that she has. Noticing it makes you feel sad and small and worried.  
  
You drag up a chair, sit down with your legs and arms crossed, put on a nonchalant, superior attitude. You wait until he’s sat a respectful distance away, mirroring you. He doesn’t waste time: he pulls out a husktop and immediately starts typing.  
  
“My name is Peikeo Mirkai,” he says, leaning forward. “I first encountered Terezi Pyrope when she contacted me about an attempt on your life while you were on a transport ship.”  
  
Oh, so this is the guy Terezi told about the lowblood assassin? The assassin that turned out to be some alien with teleportation powers that she tried to protect, for reasons that have to do with memories you no longer have, but Her Imperious Condescension believes can be returned with the help of another alien Terezi tried to help? “You can drop the investigation,” you say, waving a hand. “I sorted out the—”  
  
“It’s not about that, ma’am. It’s that when we receive evidence such as she provided from unknown sources, we perform background checks to ascertain the reliability of any information, and I personally found some… disturbing things in connection to Miss Pyrope’s personnel file.”  
  
“That’s Chief Auxiliary to you,” you say sharply. “What kind of ‘disturbing things’ are you talking about here?”  
  
“I’ll be honest, I had my first suspicions when I saw her profile picture. She insists on integrating the color red into her wardrobifier, regardless of regulation?”  
  
You stare at him. “There’s something criminal about the color red?”  
  
“With all due respect, ma’am, it’s a highly blasphemous color used by the Cult of the Signless Sufferer.”  
  
“Look, legislacerator, Ter—Chief Auxiliary Pyrope is _blind_. She makes up for it by tasting and smelling colors and she’s been obsessed with red since before she was old enough to know what the Cult _was_. If you’re not here to do anything other than grasp at straws, then—”  
  
“That’s not the full sum of my concerns here, Admiral. I’m laying out a series of fact in order to make the evidence more easily digestible,” Mirkai says in exactly the same kind of condescending tone that Terezi puts on just before she whacks you with her cane and points out all the reasons you’re being dumb.  
  
“You might wanna hurry up.” You tap your watch pointedly.  
  
“Her blindness is the next item I wanted to discuss. At Ascension her case was put before the Infirmity Culling Review Board, correct?”  
  
“I guess so.”  
  
“That’s a bit puzzling in and of itself, isn’t it? Her disability removes the functionality of a vital sense organ and she does not possess a robotic replacement to compensate for it. For cases of teal caste or lower, the Infirmity Culling Review Board dismisses all cases that fit those two criteria without considering any mitigating factors, such as Pyrope’s extraordinary sense of smell. The only exception would be if a troll of violet caste or higher offered to vouch for the infirm troll, and that didn’t apply here. There’s no reason your Second’s case would have made it to the Review Board, ma’am. She should be dead right now.”  
  
…Okay, that does sound suspicious, but fuck, you already know Terezi’s a traitor to the empire. Treasonous actions done in the interest of self-preservation are harmless compared to what the Condesce caught her doing.  
  
“And?” you say. “She’s serving me at full capacity. I haven’t had a single problem yet.”  
  
“I am not saying she is incapable of fulfilling her duties,” he says. “But since around the same time that Pyrope’s cohort was Conscripted, the Cult leapt from a long-forgotten footnote in history to a highly dangerous and visible organization.”  
  
You narrow your eyes. “Watch it, legislacerator, that’s my cohort too you’re talking about,” you say, flexing your razor-sharp claws so he can see.  
  
“I don’t mean to say that every troll born during that time frame is a criminal,” Mirkai says, “just that this fits with the Cult’s actions during this time period. The Cult’s activities since then have largely revolved around the distribution of propaganda, the dismantling of lowblood slave trafficking, and the removal from custody of trolls that are about to be culled for disobedience to superiors, speaking heresy against the hemocaste or the rule of our cruel and wise empress, or for reasons of infirmity. If there is any organization with the desire or resources to interfere with your Second’s imperial culling files, it would be the Cult.”  
  
You prop up a chin on a hand, giving him a bored look. “Look, greenie—” He flinches at the insult. “—I’m still not seeing a valid reason to suspect someone with such a clean record. Are you planing on wasting my time any further, or…?”  
  
Mirkai’s mouth drops open. “Ma’am, Terezi Pyrope could be providing the enemies of Her Imperious Condescension with sensitive information as we speak!”  
  
“Mm.” You shrug. “Unlikely.” (Who are you kidding, it sounds totally plausible after what went down with the aliens.)  
  
Peikeo Mirkai is starting to look annoyed now. “I have further evidence.” He turns the husktop around and tilts the screen so you can see, then presses play on the video.  
  
The camera is a bit shaky, probably being held in someone’s hand. There’s a muffled “is this thing on?” and the screen is dark for a moment before the user figures it out and takes off the lens cap. Then the screen shows a middle-aged greenblood’s face. They clear their throat. “We’re about to initiate culling procedure 104503, at 1050 hours on June 6, 5022 as marked on the Alternian Standard Timekeeping System. Culling will proceed at 1100 hours.”  
  
Someone off-camera hisses, “ _Name!_ ”  
  
“Oh, right, I gotta get the cullee’s info for the record.” The camera swivels around and focuses in on a different face. “State your name and hemocaste for the culling records.”  
  
You almost miss what happens next, because that’s not just some random troll that’s about to get culled.  
  
You know he has to be eight sweeps because that’s the Conscription age, but he looks at least a sweep younger. His rack is still as humongous as ever, but the horns are scratched like he’s been in a fight recently. Whatever fakey bullshit imaginary confidence fairies he believes in have clearly abandoned him—he’s sitting in a metal interrogation chair in shackles, shaking and staring in terror at the camera lens.  “T-t-t-t-t-t—”  
  
“Speak up, kid,” says the camera guy.  
  
“T-t-t-tavros N-n-nitram,” he squeaks. “H-h-h—” He takes a breath and tries again. “H-h—”  
  
“Hurry up, we don’t have all night.”  
  
“H-h-h-hemoc—”  
  
He doesn’t get a chance to finish.  
  
“ _Hey_ —” There’s a loud _CRASH_ and shouting from the camera guy. The camera tumbles and hits the ground, showing a view of a dirty corner. There’s a _thud_ and the camera goes spinning like someone kicked it.  
  
“Someone call security!” one of the other trolls is shouting. Then the shouts abruptly cut off as a whooshing sound, like a spray device, crackles through the medium-quality audio. There’s a pair of thuds, the kind that happens when bodies hit the floor.  
  
“Y-y-you _found_ me!” That’s Tavros’ voice. He’s ecstatic.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” says a growly, weirdly familiar voice. “Let’s just get out of here before security actually does show up.”  
  
“I quite concur,” says a high-pitched,  _horrifyingly_ _familiar_ voice. “…hey, is this thing on?”  
  
There’s a click. The video ends.  
  
The legislacerator turns the husktop around and picks at the keyboard for a few moments. “This happened four sweeps ago, just one week before the Conscription of Terezi Pyrope. At the time the legislacerators working on the case, which was of high concern to imperial authorities, as you can imagine, were forced to rely on this video for evidence. All other videogrubs or other security measures had been remotely hacked, using the signature techniques the Cult is fond of—we’ve long concluded they have one primary hacker, who possesses a number of individual inventions that imperial cybersecurity experts do not.”  
  
You act nonchalant and thank gog for your training, because you’re pretty sure it works. “And what exactly is the point of me watching this?”  
  
“Unfortunately the legislacerative team was forced to place this case in the cold crimes drawer. They hoped they could determine the culprits via voice identification software, but the database showed no matches. Naturally, that was very, very strange, since the imperial database holds records for every troll Conscripted for the past one thousand sweeps.” He pauses significantly like a douche in a movie.  
  
“Well?” you snap.  
  
“I was recently assigned the task of combing through the cold cases. It occurred to me that, well, the voices in the video sound awfully young, and I realized that their information was not in the database because at the time of the investigation, _they had not been Conscripted yet._ ”  
  
He turns the husktop around again. This time it displays a page of the imperial vocal registration database. There’s two audio clips at the top. He clicks play on the first: “ _Let’s just get out of here before security actually does show up._ ”  
  
There’s a flashing loading symbol in the shape of the Peixes sign, and then the results appear. _NO MATCHES FOUND._  
  
You give Peikeo Mirkai a look. “Is that seriously what you interrupted my sleeping schedule to show me?”  
  
Instead of answering, he hits play on the second clip.  
  
“ _I quite concur,_ ” you hear. The loading symbol again. _PYROPE, TEREZI, HEMOCASTE: 00827F, AGE: 10, DESIGNATION: CHIEF AUXILIARY, SUPERIOR OFFICER: ADM. V. SERKET, STATIONED: BATTLESHIP CONDESCENSION._ There’s a photograph of her in her old legislacerative uniform underneath.  
  
Mirkai crosses his arms triumphantly. “Admiral, do I have your permission to arrest one Terezi Pyrope, for the crime of high treason?”  
  
You say nothing for a moment. He must mistake your expression for something else, because he hurriedly adds, “I understand that it’s typically the officer’s prerogative to deal with disloyalty on the part of an Auxiliary, but in this case I would respectfully recommend that—”  
  
You take control of his mind.  
  
You’re not a wriggler anymore, so you don’t have to put your fingers to your temple or something ridiculous like that, and you’ve gotten to a level of precision and skill that means he doesn’t even notice that you’ve grabbed the reins inside his head.  
  
He blinks. Rubs the bridge of his nose. “…forgive me, I seem to have lost my train of thought.” He looks down at the husktop, bewildered, and you slam it shut before he can get a look at the screen.  
  
“It was a stupid train of thought anyway,” you tell him. “Like, really stupid. The Terezi Pyrope theory didn’t lead anywhere and you’re embarrassed about the whole stupid situation, so you won’t be telling anyone about your failure.”  
  
Mirkai nods. He looks down in shame, a teal blush growing on his cheeks. “Sorry, ma’am,” he mutters.  
  
“I’ll let it slide just this once. Now, you’re going to walk off with your husktop and get yourself a nice cold glass of grubjuice, slip into a nice cold recuperacoon, and all you’ll remember about this morning is that you talked it over with Admiral Vriska Serket and realized that Pyrope is actually totally innocent, and it’s now time to bury that old case back in the cold crimes drawer. And, also, Admiral Serket was impressive and leader-like and intimidating, and you were intimidated. Got it?”  
  
He nods, eyes widening.  
  
“Get out of my room.”  
  
He takes his husktop and slinks away in a hurry.  
  
You watch him until he leaves. Then you stare at your boots in silence. You don’t feel tired anymore, just sad and worried. _Turns out I really knew nothing about Terezi, huh?_  
  
Your eyes travel to where the servants dropped the transport modus with her belongings. You shouldn’t, you know it’s not something a good palemate should do, but you’re in a strange place and she won’t ever know about it and _she lied to you._  
  
When you set out this quadrant you always assumed that it would be you making it up to her. For being a murderer, a liar, a manipulator, a cheater. In your long, lonely sweeps at the academy, you held Terezi up somewhere high in your head, a paragon of justice and virtue and everything you weren’t. When your pen hovered over the paper, about to write her name down as your requested Second, you’d entertained some guilty thoughts about how it would go, with her there to balance you out.  
  
You’d forgotten that Terezi has grown up in a world completely different from yours.  
  
You pick up the transport modus, sifting through the items until you get to her husktop. It has a bright red case with her hatchsign scribbled over the place where the company logo should be. It’s password-protected, so you shuffle through your sylladex until you find a small data transfer stick hidden all the way at the back. You plug it in and watch the decryption program load.  
  
You huddle up, wrap your arms around your knees. Gog, even while you’re breaking into her personal belongings you’re wishing she were there. Guiltily you wonder if maybe you could curl up on the pile and find something off PapHub and think about Terezi. Then you remember where she is and remember why you don’t deserve comfort right now.  
  
The screen blinks and switches to an unlocked desktop. Trollian is open.  
  
There’s a blinking new-message notice, but there’s no profile picture and the trolltag just says [redacted] [CG]. It’s in grey.  
  
\--  [redacted] [CG] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--  
  
CG: OUR RESIDENT COMPUTERRORIST AND PROFESSIONAL THORN IN MY BULGE SAYS HE NEEDS TO TALK TO YOU AS OF APPROX. ONE SECOND AGO  
CG: APPARENTLY SOMEONE IS INVESTIGATING YOUR PERSONAL INFORMATION IN CONJUNCTION WITH TAVROS’ CULLING RECORDS?  
CG: SOMETHING ABOUT SEARCH MONITORING AND DATABASES, I DON’T FUCKING KNOW. ALL THE SHIT THAT SPEWS INCESSANTLY FROM SOLLUX’S FACEGASH NOWANIGHTS IS ESSENTIALLY INCOMPREHENSIBLE.  
CG: JUST TROLL ME WHEN YOU GET BACK FROM DOING WHATEVER SPIDERBITCH-RELATED HOOFBEASTSHIT YOU’RE UP TO NOW.  
  
\-- [redacted] [CG] ceased trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--  
  
Is that _Karkat?_ Seriously? You were convinced he was dead. You never did figure out what color blood he had, but considering his inadequate horns, stature and complete lack of fighting ability you assumed he’d be culled within a sweep of Ascension. You knew he was low on the spectrum from the way he talked, but you never pegged him for a Sufferist. Didn’t he want to be a fucking threshecutioner or something? And apparently Sollux is one too, and not hooked up to a spaceship like you thought he’d be by now. Neither of them seemed the kind of troll to engage in highly treasonous torture-implement-worshipping cultist activ—  
  
Karkat’s hatchsign.  
  
Holy shit. You learned what the Cult was through whispered rumors of high-profile anti-Condesce cyber-vandalism cases at the academy, and somehow you never connected it to your old hatefriends. He literally wore heresy on his hemoanonymous sleeve.  
  
Was this Sufferist shit connected to Terezi’s aliens? What was even _in_ your lost memories?  
  
You resist the urge to smash the husktop against the wall. Standing up, resign yourself to getting no sleep, tuck her husktop into your sylladex so that another nosy fucker can’t go poking around and find something incrimination, and decide it’s time to do your duty as instructed by your empress.  
  
Your security clearance gives you immediate access to the information on Terezi’s assignment. You straighten up your uniform in the mirror and take the elevator to the holding cells.  
  
  
  
  
White halls and silence greet you. It’s funny, because you know that torture takes place behind each white door, but everything is so clean and untouched. Usually the empire likes to revel in the death and suffering of the unworthy. You suppose it makes sense, since this place is meant to keep aliens and who knows what kind of pathogens they’re carrying. It’s still unnatural and unnerving.  
  
Terezi always seemed like a practical, intelligent troll. You don’t understand what’s so special about these four aliens that she’d be willing to risk certain death for them.  
  
You don’t understand why the Condesce didn't just spear her with her 2x3dent. The alien named “Rose” called Terezi a _Seer of Mind_ , and the Condesce said her mind was difficult to break because of her mind powers. But mind powers are a half-caegar a dozen across the empire. What does Terezi have that’s so valuable the empress would forgive her for treason?  
  
You’ve just located the correct holding cell when the empress texts you, as if it was a transition in a poorly scripted movie.  
  
\-- )(—ER IMP———ERIOUS COND——ESC-ENSION [)(IC] began trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \--  
  
)(IC: just to be totally clear on t)(is  
)(IC: you need to keep your moray eel IN LIN——E  
)(IC: i aint gonna be toleraytin anemone more slip-ups  
)(IC: understood  
AG: Y8s, your c8ndescensi8n.  
  
\-- )(—ER IMP———ERIOUS COND——ESC-ENSION [)(IC] ceased trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \--  
  
For a moment when you command the cell door to open you can’t see fuck all because it’s so dark. Then you say “lights on” and take a look at the alien.  
  
It looks very similar to the one that tried to kill you in the elevator, but with shorter, lighter hair and differently shaped eyes. You see the sun emblazoned upon her dress and suddenly you can’t breathe.  
  
“That symbol,” you say, trembling, advancing toward the alien lying prone on the ground, bleeding from several deep wounds. “What is—I need—explain its meaning _now_.”  
  
“Vriska?”  
  
You don’t know how the alien knows your name; was it from Terezi? Is it part of your lost memories? The empress is probably listening in on this conversation, should you even be asking about these things, or is it sensitive information that would hurt Terezi if the empress had it?  
  
Fuck that. Terezi is undergoing elaborate mental torture because she witheld things from the empress. You are going to be a loyal servant of the empire and damn it, when Terezi returns you’ll make sure she is too.  
  
“ _Explain it._ ”  
  
The alien is holding a pale, clawless hand in your direction. Placating. “I understand that you lack a number of vital memories, but I need you to remain calm and—”  
  
Fuck ‘calm,’ you died and you woke up with that symbol scrawled on your thorax. Your throat feels constricted and you need it to _stop talking_ , so you lash out—a boot to the ribcage. The alien takes the blow without even a grunt, even when you know that you struck hard enough to break a seadweller’s bones. It doesn’t fail to dodge it, even though it’s severely injured and struggling to push the upper half of its body off the ground… it’s clear that it’s purposely taking the blow.  
  
“It’s the symbol of Light,” it says, coughing. “You don’t recall it, but our respective species played two different sessions of the same Game, a Game that orchestrates the destruction of one universe and, if the players are successful, the creation of another. I’m assuming you’re interested in it because you’ve seen it before, probably after dying and being resurrected in your godtier outfit. Is this assumption correct?”

Silence.  
  
“My name is Rose Lalonde,” it says. (Maybe ‘she’ is the right pronoun? You heard Terezi say that about the Rose alien.) “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”  
  
“I’m not interested in being comfortable.”  
  
Rose finally succeeds in pushing herself upright and leaning against the wall. There’s a smear of disgusting red ( _red????????_ ) blood where she moves. “Fine, then. In the Game, if you die in a certain location, you can be resurrected in godtier form. After that point, you will revive after any sort of damage in your godtier outfit—” She gestures to her clothes. “—unless you die for a particularly good cause, or you are killed in the act of doing something particularly evil. The symbol you saw appear on your clothing is the symbol of Light. My classpect, which determines the combination of abilities I possess, is the Seer of Light. You are the Thief of Light.”  
  
“And I’m supposed to believe that? Wow, aliens are stupider than I thought.”  
  
“You would not be here if you were not willing to believe it.”  
  
You scoff. “You have no idea why I’m here.”  
  
“You’re here because you want your memories back.” She frowns, tucking a strand of pale hair behind a pink-white earlobe. “I assume because Terezi mentioned something to you. Where… where is she? I would have thought she’d come with you. Is she with Dave?”  
  
“Tell me how to get my memories back.”  
  
She stares at you for a long moment, like she’s assessing you and finding you wanting. You can tell by the twist of her strange alien mouth the exact moment she decides not to press the issue further. Then she says, “I don’t know how.”  
  
“Then _who does_?”  
  
“I believe Terezi would, if she remembered the last days of the Game, as she was the one to crash it. She took away her own memories of that moment, likely to avoid the guilt of what she had done, and she most likely hid yours as well so that you would not judge her for her actions. If my calculations of her character are correct.”  
  
You say nothing, just scowl down at the alien.  
  
The way she’s claiming to analyze the workings of Terezi’s conscience would be very pale, if it weren’t for the cut-and-dried, uncomplicated and coldly uncaring way she’s talking. It prickles all your protective instincts.  
  
This alien isn’t giving you anything that could help Terezi. You walk out without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vriska........ stop stomping on ppl like an anime villain............. rose doesnt deserve it at all :(
> 
> also fish puns are hard. there are too many. why did i do this to myself
> 
>  
> 
> the past week and half has been SO BUSY in my life that i havent been able to write as much as usual (im still writing when i can tho and my word count is zooming back up this week), so im probably not going to post a new chapter on sunday 5/22. everything will be back to normal after that


	6. ...could twist the sinews of thy heart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has a bunch of super fun character interactions that i had a lot of fun writing and i am very excited about them!!
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: non-graphic discussions of torture, dubious morality (...as usual), use of weapons, vriska being vriska, and... that's p much it. let me know if there's smth else i should be warning for

It’s exactly twenty-eight hours since they took Terezi because she almost betrayed the empire. Nineteen hours since you committed treason by wiping a meddling legislacerator’s mind in order to cover up even more betrayal. It’s in the day half of the Imperial Fleet’s sleep cycle, so almost everyone is asleep, but you’re not interested in sleeping while Terezi is being tortured.  
  
You’re at the shooting range. You never liked guns as much as swords or knives, and your first proper weapons training was with your standard-issue cadet’s sword. As a wriggler on the homeworld you always used your manipul8ion with more finesse than the rusty sabers you waved around clumsily with Terezi, so when you got to the academy and made your decision to keep your telepathy as your back-pocket secret you had a rude awakening—but you learned to love how a hidden knife and a skill with a blade could give you an unexpected edge in a strife. Your schoolfeeders focused more on hand-to-hand fighting, blaster weapons and large-scale tactical weaponry considerations than bladekind, but it was the most practical for survival against your classmates, so you downloaded as many training schematics as you could and got to work.  
  
But you’re not at the military officer’s academy anymore, you’re on your official Fleet assignment. Which is to lead that Fleet, or at least a large chunk of it, even though you literally turned ten sweeps a few perigees ago. So you’re brushing up on your blasterkind, because you’ll probably need it more in the future.  
  
Most trolls leave their two sweeps of training to a permanent assignment alongside their school friends, giggly and excited that they made it without getting culled. You always knew that where you were going, you weren’t going to be making friends—you’re a fucking commander of the Imperial Fleet of the Glorious Alternian Empire. You’d lucked so much out when Terezi turned out to not hate you after all those wrigglerhood sweeps.  
  
After you forced her to come with you to the place where she’s being tortured. In some fucked-up ritual meant to, to, to _appease_ you or something, to make sure she can’t refuse you her loyalty, or, or—  
  
Fuck. You’re about to cry. You’re using a lightweight combat blaster turned to its highest setting, so you leave scorch marks on the target with every correct shot. Your latest scorch mark is several feet from the edge of the target.  
  
You haven’t cried since you were six and you’re not going to start now, so you just fire off more shots, forcing yourself to focus until you’re hitting the bullseye every time.  
  
You need to spend more time on the range. You’re not as good at this as you need to be, and you’re Vriska Serket. The idea that there’s something you can’t do is ridiculous, and it needs to be corrected.  
  
There’s beeping from your palmhusk, which you ignore until it’s too much to ignore. You answer it with a growl, but it’s trollian again.  
  
You’re really starting to hate the color fuchsia.  
  
)(IC: i played t)(e recording of yo conc)(versation wit)( lalonde   
)(IC: s)(ame aboat t)(e delay in getting your anemonemories back  
)(IC: o)( well it wont be too long before pyropes done with conc)(ditioning and we can get t)(e w)(ole t)(ing done wit)(  
)(IC: t)(e moment s)(e started cooperating and let t)(em in willingly )(er mind opened up wit)(out a single )(itch  
)(IC: appierently mind players got well-ordered minds or some s)(ip  
)(IC: means youll be getting )(er back sooner rat)(er t)(an later  
)(IC: only anot)(er nig)(t or so  
)(IC: i betta youll be reel )(appy w)(en t)(at )(appens wontc)(a  
)(IC: get )(er into a pile give )(er a nice welcome back  
)(IC: amirite or amirite  
  
The next thing that appears is a gif of her waggling her eyebrows suggestively. It’s a very high-quality gif. You wonder in what context the gif was created, and if the empress is doing the casual chatlog thing to screw with you or if this is just how she acts all the time.  
  
Sometimes you look at the fuchsia text scrolling across your screen and feel a strange pang of familiarity, as if it reminds you very strongly of something you care about. But it gets all twisted up in your thorax with a deep sense of wrongness and you start feeling queasy, so you ignore the feeling.  
  
)(IC: come on you gotta answer your empress swimtime  
)(IC: come on  
)(IC: e)( w)(atebber  
)(IC: in t)(e evening you got an appointment wit)( me, undersand?  
)(IC: we gotta talk aboat your new a-sand-ment  
)(IC: youre taking over t)(e drinerus conflict  
)(IC: i need t)(at s)(ip D-----EALT wit)( sooner rat)(er t)(an later  
)(IC: my treasury department peeps are complaining at me all t)(e time atrout troop replacement costs and its getting reely annoying at t)(is point  
  
The Drinerus conflict? It’s a big deal. It’s the biggest campaign there’s been in sweeps, and being involved in its management is a sure way to find your name in the imperial news feeds or in clickbait tagline of a gossip article. You read over what the Condesce is saying about the war being a drain on the empire’s coffers and remember the heated conversation about the Drinerus between the generals two nights ago—all you ever heard about the conquest was that Alternia was winning and so-and-so sweeping victory occurred at so-and-so time. It’s a bit mind-breaking to realize that most of that is a very effective PR department.

Also, the idea that the war is draining the treasury is especially worrying. When your species has coalesced into a single nation that centrally produces and distributes all goods according to a strictly enforced and meticulously calculated caste system, without need for things such as “trade” to get in the way, the suggestion that your economy is unbalanced is _really scary._  
  
You’re working your ego into a sweat over how important a job it is that’s been handed to you when Terezi crosses your mind. Your excitement evaporates.  
  
)(IC: t)(en after t)(at you got a meetin wit)( t)(e propaganda guys  
)(IC: t)(ey wrote out an inspirin speec)( for you to read to your solediers and everyfin  
)(IC: takes inspraytion from some of ma)( favorite personal moments of leaders)(ip  
)(IC: pretty s)(rimpressive result if i do spray so mys)(elf  
)(IC: also you gotta start ANSW----ERIN YOUR M-ESSAG-ES sooner or later cuz i )(ad my tec)( fis)(ies fix up somefin so it tells me w)(en people are readin w)(at i write  
)(IC: and i KNOW youre t)(ere  
AG: Forgive me f8r asking, 8ut h8w many fish puns does this speech contain?  
)(IC: o)( just quit wit)( t)(e respectful crab i know youre just coverfin your ass because of pyrope  
)(IC: t)(is speec)( contains an appropierate and leaderly amount of fis)( puns obviously  
)(IC: and Y---ES you )(ave to say t)(em too  
)(IC: propaganda peeps alraydy wrote a bunc)( of articles to send to t)(e gossip rags aboat )(ow majestic and powerful your delivery is  
)(IC: will be  
)(IC: glub  
)(IC: w)(atebber  
  
\-- )(-ER IMP------ERIOUS COND----ESC-ENSCION [)(IC] ceased trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \--  
  
In the empty shooting range, you lay down your weapon and sink down to sit against the wall. You stare up at the ceiling. It emits the same odd, artificial light that you see in every Fleet ship, just emanating from the walls and ceiling without apparent source. You think it has something to do with luminescent grubs and advanced bioengineering.  
  
You want to close your eyes and sleep, like you wanted to just hours before, but there’s something in your thorax that won’t let you. Your horns ache with energy. You let your eyelids close briefly, and you feel like a blazing sun (the symbol of Light, the human said) is burning into your good eye.  
  
You don’t close them again.  
  
In the evening, when the warship is stirring awake, you go back to the Condesce’s throne room and talk about strategy. You push every part of your being into analyzing the situation on the battlefield, and you don’t mention Terezi.  
  
There’s a shorter way to get back to your quarters, but you want to learn the layout of the ship. Figure out escape routes, invasion routes, where the other generals’ quarters are, how many hands your food passes through before it’s delivered to your door. You pull up a map on your palmhusk and after a glance at the layout, the first thing you do is scout the ways in and out of the officers-only passages.  
  
No one can see you, so you maybe practice walking in a confident and leaderlike. You also maybe try out different ways of putting down your feet so your steel-toed boots make the most intimidating clang. Maybe you do that. It’s a distant possibility. Trollkind may never know.  
  
It’s an old ship. (You refuse to do the stupid seadweller thing where you use she/her pronouns for a fucking boat.) It’s the fastest, most heavily armed, most protected ship in the Fleet, but it’s also the oldest in commission. Rumor has it that the helmsman is almost half the empress’s age, and that’s thousands of sweeps at minimum. The point is, its age shows: the empress’s architerrorists keep a strict divide between the places lowbloods can and can’t go, as in the old traditions. Your quarters and the hallways attached to it are part of an extended maze of restricted areas invisible on maps available to anyone of Clearance Level 7 and below, filled with bubbling coral fountains and soothing water music, presumably to comfort seadwellers missing the ocean.  
  
You duck around corners until you find an exit, which makes you raise your eyebrows because it’s built like an airlock, with two doors and a space in between. It’s like the gill lickers are worried they’ll get infected if they breathe the same air as a lowblood. It’s kind of amusing.  
  
The moment you cross into the Land of Dirt and Unwashed Clothing your ears are blasted with noise: it’s a busy corridor, with troll workers scuttling to their jobs and drones humming angrily as they go off to do whatever their current task is, and there are screens playing imperial newsfeeds every ten feet or so.  
  
You set off along the corridor, planning to trace a route to the food preparation sector so you can figure out exactly how possible-poison-free your meals are. You ignore the newsfeeds and the people around you (they cut you a pretty wide berth anyways, and you get to make loud noises with your shoes, which is always a plus).  
  
Then the sound from the newsfeeds cuts off. There are confused looks from the trolls around you, and you’re about to ignore it, but you glance up and see that every screen on the hallway has gone staticky.  
  
A brown guy a couple feet away is squinting at a husktablet. “Huh, it’s not working on any of the other sites,” he comments.  
  
“Yeah, it looks like it’s an empire-wide problem!” another guy answers, grinning.  
  
The brownblood squints at him. “Why’re you so happy about it?”  
  
“Uh…” The other guy looks worried. “…no reason?”  
  
The brownblood laughs and claps him on the back. “Just fucking with you. Man, screw the newsfeeds.”  
  
The screens turn black, displaying an _APOLOGIES FOR THE TECHNICAL MALFUNCTION_ message. Then it goes staticky too, and another message shows up instead.  
  
THE PATH TO TRUTH IS NOT FOUND IN BLINDLY FOLLOWING THE LIES OF THE GOVERNMENT, BUT IN QUESTIONING WHAT YOU ARE TOLD.  
  
CHAINS 2:18  
THE FIRST BOOK OF THE IRON INFIDEL  
  
The message stays for ten seconds. Then it fades, replaced by the symbol of the Sufferer’s chains, burning red against the black background.  
  
By your count, it is almost eighty-eight seconds before the imperial husktop people figure out how to turn off every newsfeed in the Alternian empire. Karkat Vantas’s hatchsign stays there the entire time. When the screen goes blue with a ‘Signal lost’ message, you shake yourself awake and look down at your palmhusk. It’s flashing frantically and the words ‘Emergency Message’ are at the top of the screen. It’s displaying large text:  
  
ALL OFFIS)(-----ERS WIT)( A CL---EARANC-E L-EV-EL )(IG)(-ER T)(AN TW-ELV-E B-ETTA B-E COMIN UP )(-ER-E FUCKIN IMM--------EDIAT-ELY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
You’re still halfway in shock, so you spend at least sixty more seconds wondering if the Condesce carefully considered the number of exclamation points in that statement or if it was just a panic reaction (because you can relate to both of those possibilities) before it gets through your skull that this statement is directed at you.  
  
You’re not late this time. Considering how pissed the empress is right now, that’s definitely a good thing.  
  
All the officers currently present on the Battleship Condescension are standing in rings around the throne, heads bowed in respect, knees wobbling in terror. Dozens of other screens on the walls show more faces in dress uniform, presumably officers in other areas of the Fleet listening in. The empress is talking through her fangs and grinding the tines of her 2x3dent against the floor.  
  
“I _crushed_ them before and I’ll do it again,” she spits, “and I am _not_ letting them waltz back into the limelight.” From the way her ring-covered fingers are clenched around her weapon, she’s three millimeters away from stabbing the lieutenant colonel in front of her.  
  
“Your condescension—” a troll starts. It’s a general you remember from the last time you were in this space, but you can’t recall her name for the life of you.  
  
“Shut the fuck up!” The empress turns a narrowed gaze to the rest of the assembled officers. “If anyone— _anyone_ —here has an idea of who the fuck gave those cultist pieces of sea slime the passcodes to the imp-eel-ial newsfeeding network, they betta step the fuck up right now or _they’ll be missing legs to step with!”_  
  
The generals are the only ones who aren’t locked in terrified silence. The woman who was talking earlier has her arms crossed and her lips pursed, fangs hanging over her lip in an annoyed manner. “Your condescension, if you would—”  
  
“Thought I told you to _shut_ —”  
  
“It’s a remote hack of some kind, your imperious condescension. The cybersecurity division just tracked the culprits,” she finally interrupts. “All they have at the moment is a location. The Grislane system, which if you recall, your condescension, is on the far edges of the Lazlus sector. If you would permit me to furnish the most local group of culling drones with the coordinates?”  
  
The empress stops, caught off guard. “Oh,” she says anticlimatically. “Yeah, do that, and set up the video to send to my private quarters, I wanna sea that. Send some clowns too, I want some interrogation before this gets cleaned up. Need to mako shore this ain’t the only base that needs shutting down.”  
  
“Yes, your condescension.” The general taps the side of her glasses and mouths something silently, probably using vocal cord software to send a message.  
  
In the meantime the empress captchalogues her culling fork, to the relief of the rest of the room. She doesn’t take deep breaths or any other obvious calming-down gesture, but there’s composure in the way she straightens her spine and flicks her fins.  
  
That’s when it occurs to you that the cultist idiots who signposted the symbol of the Signless Sufferer on every screen in the galaxy cluster… are probably in cahoots with Terezi’s wrigglerhood rebel pals.  
  
And the drones will be knocking down their door any minute now.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
You have a brief argument with yourself. Half of you wants to do the self-preservatory thing and say nothing. The second half is imagining Terezi’s tearful face at smelling Karkat’s corpse skewered on a culling pike, a sight you have no doubt the Condesce would enjoy broadcasting on the imperial newsfeeds. The second half of your mind presents further evidence: the cultists know about Terezi, and subjugglators are good at getting cultists to talk.  
  
You seize the minds of the three people close enough to you to see over your shoulder—their minds are weaker than what you’re used to, but it’s still a struggle to balance more than one while doing something else at the same time—and take Terezi’s husktop out of your sylladex.  
  
Trollian is still open. You minimize the screen, think _Oh gog I can’t believe I’m doing this,_ and click on the previous conversation.  
  
\--  gallowsCalibrator [GC] began trolling [redacted] [CG] \--  
  
GC: K4RK4T  
\-- [redacted] [CG] is offline! \--  
  
Typing in Terezi’s ‘numerals of the blind prophets’ while shielding your screen from possibly the most dangerous group of people in the Alternian Empire while trying not to look suspicious is hard. It’s hard and no one understands.  
  
GC: NO YOU DONT G3T TO B3 OFFL1N3 R1GHT NOW!  
\-- [redacted] [CG] is offline! \--  
GC: TH1S 1S 4 L1F3 OR D34TH M4TT3R!!!!!!!!  
\-- [redacted] [CG] is offline! \--  
\-- [redacted] [CG] is online! \--  
CG: OK, OK, CALM DOWN  
CG: I WAS ON THE FUCKING LOAD GAPER, GIVE ME A BREAK  
GC: YOU DO NOT G3T 4 8R8K  
GC: I MEAN  
GC: BR34K  
GC: TH4T 1S D3F1N1T3LY WH4T 1 M34NT TO TYP3  
GC: YOU DO NOT G3T 4 BR34K R1GHT NOW B3C4US3 YOUR L1F3 1S 1N D4NG3R  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING ABOUT NOW.  
GC: YOU W3R3 B3H1ND TH3 TH1NG ON TH3 N3WSF33DS, R1GHT?  
CG: WELL, YEAH  
CG: IT WAS MOSTLY SOLLUX’S WORK AND KANAYA’S IDEA, BUT I LIKE TO THINK I PLAYED A ROLE IN INSPIRING THE WHOLE THING  
CG: PRETTY FUCKING AWESOME RIGHT  
GC: YOU M34N OTH3R TH4N TH3 F4CT TH4T TH3 3MPR3SS JUST TR4CK3D YOUR LOC4T1ON  
CG: THAT’S NOT FUNNY.  
CG: TEREZI, THAT IS NOT FUNNY.  
CG: THAT IS SO FUCKING FAR FROM FUNNY.  
CG: IT’S SO FUCKING FAR FROM AMUSING THAT THE DISTANCE FROM THE BATTLESHIP CONDESCENSION TO THE RENAEAN GALAXY CLUSTER LOOKS LIKE THE TRIP FROM MY HIVE TO THE SUPERMARKET IN COMPARISON.  
GC: 1M NOT JOK1NG  
CG: FUCK.  
GC: Y3S  
GC: W3 4R3 FUCK3D  
GC: TH4T SUMS UP TH3 S1TU4T1ON QU1T3 N1C3LY  
  
You think you do a fairly good interpretation of Terezi’s character, if you do say so yourself.  
  
GC: YOU N33D TO G3T MOV1NG F1V3 M1NUT3S 4GO  
GC: . . .   
GC: WHY 4R3 YOU ST1LL ONL1N3  
GC: . . . . . . . .  
GC: V4NT4S?  
CG: SENT OUT AN EVACUATION SIGNAL.  
CG: SOLLUX’S NETWORK WILL BE SHUTTING DOWN SOON, THAT SHOULD STOP THEM FROM TRACKING US TO A NEW LOCATION.  
CG: WE HAVE A BACKUP, BUT I NEED TO GO NOW.  
CG: WE’LL BE IN CONTACT AS SOON AS WE CAN.  
  
\-- [redacted] [CG] stopped trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--  
  
Then the conversation just disappears from the screen. You blink and try to click on [redacted] [CG] again.  
  
\-- sorry, [redacted] [CG] does not exist! \--  
  
You put Terezi’s husktop back in your sylladex, let go of the minds of the trolls around you, and try to look like you’ve been paying attention instead of casually committing treason.  
  
“…think that’s the best course of action as now,” the empress is saying. “If the tech fishies think it’s the same ones that keep posting subversive ship and taking away wrigglers that are aboat to be culled for infirmity, then a public execution is the best bet.”  
  
You dust your hands off on your uniform’s pants, and then you use every bit of self-control that you forced yourself to learn at the military academy to draw a dividing line down the middle of your brain.

It’s basically a mind trick, but without the psychic powers. You learned it during training. It lets you separate the part of you that has foolish, un-strategic desires and the part that does the strategy, so that on one side is the Vriska who is quadranted to Terezi Pyrope, secret Sufferist insurgent; and on the other side is the Vriska who fought every single night for two sweeps to have ‘Admiral’ in front of her name. At the academy it was the only thing that kept you reasonably sane; it seems like a good time to do that here.  
  
So you clear your throat loudly, cross your arms, and say, “Yeah, because a public execution worked _so well_ last time around.”  
  
There’s deadly silence. Everyone is staring at you with detached fascination, like they’re wondering which horrible way you’re going to die.  
  
The empress isn’t even surprised. “Okay, Serket, what are you suggesting?”  
  
You shrug. “You kill the ringleaders, you get rid of a surface problem. You tried getting rid of the Sufferer, and the Summoner showed up a few sweeps later. You got rid of him, you developed space travel and reorganized the whole empire so that an uprising like that couldn’t happen again, and here we are now. At this point, a couple executions is like putting a bandaid over a bloody neck stump. We need to go the root of the problem if we want to get rid of them once and for all.”  
  
“Mm. Text me that later with some more concrete suggestions and I’ll conch-sider it. Get your Shell-cond on it too, fryguring out motivations and ship is her spe-sea-alty,” she says. “In the meantime I need to talk to you off-fish-ers atrout _enforcing troop loyalty._ ”  
  
The empress rattles off a list of precautionary regulations that you memorized at the academy, the kind that are implemented when there is widespread dissatisfaction and rebellious tendencies in the ranks. They have to do with increased surveillance and the severity and publicity of punishments. “…and I want at least one public whipping per battalion,” she finishes. “Find some idiot that’s going ‘round talking ship about the hemocaste and humiliate them in front of their would-be coconspirators.”  
  
“Not some harsher punishment?” asks the woman who brought up the cybersecurity division a few minutes ago.  
  
“Nah, no point,” the Condesce says. “Can’t remember a time in the last few thousand sweeps that some lowblood wasn’t muttering about hemoequality, it’s usually harmless. Even the cultists this time around who keep stealing cullees from the cullsquads are bass-ically just pains in our collective asses, not much else. But they can’t be screwing with the newsfeeds, that ship’s _disrespectful,_ sea? So we gotta mako it clear how little their rebellious chitchat matters in the long run. And mako shore that the guys you punish are talking aboat the treason out loud, too—don’t wanna give awave the fact that we know atrout their lil insurgent chatrooms. Sea-riously, it’s ab-sole-lutely adorabubble how they think it’s a sea-cret. They’re reel good at being untraceable most of the time though, gotta give ‘em that.”  
  
They better be untraceable. The last thing you need is some weirdo cultist revealing Terezi’s name during an interrogatory torture session.  
  
By the time you’re freed from the emergency meeting there are a billion messages in your work inbox. (Not your private line, thank gog.) Several of them are from the general previously in charge of the Drinerus campaign; they’re all so patronizingly passive-aggressive and stereotypically seadweller that you snigger a little. Another set of messages is from the propaganda department, which you delete without the slightest hint of regret. It’ll probably end up causing you problems, but whatever. The next message is from the empress, and it’s on your private line, too. You are getting _so_ annoyed by that.  
  
\-- )(-ER IMP------ERIOUS COND----ESC-ENSCION [)(IC] began trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \--  
  
)(IC: you said you )(ad swim kind of idea  
)(IC: s)(oot  
)(IC: but if youre gonna suggest krillin every cultist we can find t)(en t)(e answer is no  
)(IC: cause i fried t)(at t)(e first coupla times t)(e issue came up and it just doesnt work  
)(IC: t)(eres a SHITTON of lowbloods out t)(ere and you can cull ninety out of a )(undred rebaylious ones and t)(e otter ten traytors will just raise a new rebaylion  
)(IC: annoyin as s)(ell lemme tell ya  
AG: I was thinking m8re al8ng the lines of getting rid of the w8y they pass on inf8rmation.  
AG: Cultists loooooooove martyrs. Getting a pu8lic whipping is pro8a8ly like getting a 8adge for being a rebellious 8adass!  
)(IC: s)(ore as s)(ell s)(uts em up t)(oug)(  
)(IC: im prayty s)(ore youll understand t)(e impulse w)(en you )(ave to deal wit)( t)(e fuckers for a few sweeps  
)(IC: im only reely )(earing you out )(ere because your moray eel is a seer of mind and t)(eyre reel good at fryguring out strategy  
)(IC: i mean you got good strategy scores at t)(e academy too but ya cant beat sgrub powers  
AG: I really have no clue wh8t you’re talking a8out, so I’m just going to av8id responding to that.  
AG: 8ut the w8y I see it, the 8est w8y to get rid of the cultist pro8lem is to stop them from replicating.  
AG: I was thinking a widespread manipul8ion campaign.  
)(IC: no wave  
)(IC: t)(ere are billions of lowbloods in t)(is galaxy alone  
)(IC: mind control on t)(at kind of scale is WAV-E too expensive not to mention probably impossible  
AG: N8t straight-up control, o8viously, just some su8tle suggestion 8roadcasted on the newsfeeds. Chucklevoodoos are good for th8t, right? A touch of hopelessness, some fear of retri8ution… it can go a l8ng w8y.  
AG: Also your propaganda department proooooooo8a8ly needs some rev8mping if this is an issue at all. It’s weird that the low8loods aren’t terrified of 8eing culled.  
)(IC: yea)( its a mystery for me too  
)(IC: do t)(ey like  
)(IC: WANT a 2x3dent up t)(eir asses?  
)(IC: also weve tried putting manipulation cues into broadcasts before  
)(IC: it doesnt work so well  
AG: Were your su8jugglators trying to c8nvey a specific message?  
AG: Like “O8ey your empire and you will have a good life”?  
)(IC: yea)( somefin simple like t)(at  
AG: I was thinking more like there could be a newsfeed interviewing s8me counterinsurgency expert, 8ut with some added 8ackground creeping terror directed at anyone l8wer than olive.  
AG: It’s REALLY hard to get across specific messages when the troll isn’t in your eyesight, you can’t say anything out loud, and you can’t cali8rate for the resolve and strength of person8lity of the individual target.  
  
You belatedly recall that your personnel files have you marked as lacking any sort of psychic ability and you’ve been keeping it a secret for sweeps. But the empress doesn’t seem surprised at all.  
  
)(IC: ill talk to my clownfis)(es and my tec)( guppies and get back to you on t)(at one  
)(IC: also my propaganda peeps want to know w)(y youre not responding to t)(eir messages  
)(IC: i told t)(em i dont )(ave time to sort out random quarrels like t)(at and t)(ey gotta take up t)(e issue wit)( you  
)(IC: still t)(oug)(  
)(IC: dont mako anemone more problems for me i dont got t)(e energy for it  
AG: Yes, your condescension.  
)(IC: okay so now t)(at ive got you )(ere  
)(IC: time to talk drinerus aliens  
AG: I’ve c8me up with some possi8le altern8 strategies in place of the less-effective t8ctics the Fleet has 8een using previously.  
  
You spend several hours talking about troop allocations and nuclear strategy with the Condesce on your private line, which is still a thing that is weird as fuck, before the drones arrive at the ‘insurgent’s’/Karkat’s base and she logs out to watch the show. She invites you to the stream, and you decline on the basis that you need to sleep.  
  
Someone is trolling you.  
  
\-- [redacted] [CG] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--  
  
CG: I’M BACK  
GC: OH  
GC: GOOD  
CG: NOT RAGING AT THE BIT TO HEAR THE STORY OF OUR VALIANT ESCAPE FROM RIGHT UNDER THE CULLING DRONES’ NOSES?  
CG: I WASN’T EXPECTING AN ALL-OUT RAGE, BUT A MEAGER AMOUNT OF STAMPING AND FRUSTRATED WHINNYING, PERHAPS  
CG: ACTUALLY, THOUGH, THERE’S SOMETHING ELSE I WANTED TO MENTION  
GC: >:?   
  
You’re kind of proud of using Terezi’s signature confused smiley. A playful grin is tugging at your lips, and you glance up to show Terezi, who’s—  
  
Not. Sitting next to you.  
  
You just really wish she were. Did it only take eight nights or so to get this attached? Already her absence is a cold slash in the air. She was just a few degrees warmer than you, and when she laughed into your ear or held you tight you didn’t have to be on your guard anymore…  
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck this, you’re remembering her wistfully, as if she’s not coming back. That’s not true, that’s why you’re not tearing apart the battleship to find her, you’re following orders so that this won’t ever happen to her again.  
  
She’ll come back with her mind slashed into pieces and riveted together in a different shape, and it will be your fault, but she _will_ come back.  
  
CG: WHEN I RECONNECTED TO YOUR HUSKTOP I DID IT WITH YOUR TRACKER  
CG: EXCEPT YOUR BODY TRACKER ISN’T ANYWHERE NEAR YOUR HUSKTOP TRACKER.  
GC: R34LLY  
GC: TH4TS  
GC: ODD  
CG: SOLLUX SAYS IT’S PROBABLY JUST BROKEN GRUBTECH, WHICH IS UNSURPRISING BECAUSE HE’S THE WORSE PIECE OF ROTTEN FLESH TO TRICKLE OUT OF THE MOTHERGRUB’S GAPING SPHINCTER SINCE THE HANDMAID HERSELF, AND HE’S THE ONE WHO GOT US INTO A SITUATION WHERE WE HAD TO EVACUATE IN THE FIRST PLACE.  
GC: SO YOU C4N TR4CK MY LOC4T1ON HUH  
CG: …YES?  
CG: IS THIS NEWS TO YOU?  
GC: WH4T  
GC: OF COURS3 NOT  
GC: WHY WOULD 1T B3 N3WS TO M3  
CG: LOOK PYROPE, FIFTY PERCENT OF OUR OPERATION IS MADE UP OF TROLLS WHO ARE BARELY OUT OF WRIGGLERHOOD AND NARROWLY ESCAPED INFIRMITY CULLING AND THE OTHER FIFTY PERCENT IS TROLLS WHO NARROWLY ESCAPED CULLING FOR PISSING OFF SOME HIGHBLOOD SOMEWHERE, AND ONE HUNDRED PERCENT OF THEM ARE CURRENTLY FREAKING THE FUCK OUT, SO YOU ARE *NOT* ALLOWED TO START ACTING WEIRD ON ME NOW.  
CG: IT IS PHYSICALLY DIFFICULT TO DESCRIBE JUST HOW MUCH IT PAINS ME TO SAY THIS, BUT WITH THE EXCEPTION OF KANAYA YOU ARE THE SANEST PERSON I KNOW RIGHT NOW.  
GC: SO TH1S TR4CK3R  
GC: R3FR3SH MY M3MORY H3R3  
GC: HOW PR3C1S3LY C4N YOU P1NPO1NT MY LOC4T1ON  
CG: DEPENDS  
CG: IN TERMS OF COORDINATES WE JUST HAVE A ROUGH IDEA OF WHAT SOLAR SYSTEM YOU’RE PASSING NEAR, BUT THE TECH SOLLUX MODIFIED IT FROM IS SOME KIND OF TRAINING THING THEY GIVE TO SUBJUGGLATOR CADETS TO FINE-TUNE THEIR MOVEMENTS OR SOME SHIT  
CG: MOST OF THAT FUNCTIONALITY GOT DULLED DOWN AFTER WHATEVER SOLLUX DID TO THEM BUT WE CAN FIGURE OUT HOW MANY FEET YOU TRAVEL RELATIVE TO A SPECIFIC POSITION  
GC: HOW F4R 4W4Y DO3S MY TR4CK3R S4Y 1 4M FROM MY HUSKTOP  
CG: THE THING SAYS 2077 FEET  
CG: WHY?  
GC: S3ND M3 TH3 4CC3SS COD3 FOR TH3 TR4CK3R  
CG: COULD YOU JUST ANSWER QUESTIONS NORMALLY FOR ONCE  
CG: WHY?  
GC: 1 W1LL NOT 4NSW3R YOUR QU3ST1ONS “NORM4LLY” B3C4US3 TH3Y 4R3 4NNOY1NG M3  
GC: JUST S3ND TH3 4CC3SS COD3  
CG: …  
CG: BETTER PLAN. YOU WALK WITH THE HUSKTOP IN A CERTAIN DIRECTION, AND I WILL GRACIOUSLY DEIGN TO TELL YOU IF YOU’RE GETTING CLOSER OR FARTHER FROM THE BODY TRACKER.  
GC: 1 R34LLY H4V3 NO D3S1R3 TO PL4Y HOT OR COLD W1TH YOU  
GC: WHY DONT YOU JUST S3ND M3 TH3 COD3?  
CG: I COULD THEORETICALLY DO THAT, AND I DON’T EXPECT YOU TO UNDERSTAND THE COMPLEX TACTICAL CONSIDERATIONS GOING INTO THIS, BUT I’VE DEVELOPED THIS SUPERIOR PLAN INSTEAD. IF ANY OPERATION IN WHICH I WASTE MY TIME SCREWING AROUND WITH BROKEN TECH INSTEAD OF DOING SOMETHING USEFUL CAN BE CALLED SUPERIOR, OF COURSE.  
GC: YOU DONT KNOW HOW TO S3ND 1T DO YOU  
GC: DO YOU JUST NOT KNOW HOW TO US3 YOUR GRUBTOP  
GC: 1 THOUGHT YOU US3D TO BE SOM3 K1ND OF MED1OCR3 H4CK3R OR SOM3TH1NG  
CG: FUCK YOU, I’M A BRILLIANT HACKER.  
CG: I JUST DELEGATE A LOT OF TASKS TO SOLLUX.  
CG: BECAUSE DELEGATION IS THE VASCULAR PUMP OF LEADER-LIKE BEHAVIOR.  
CG: AT LEAST THAT’S WHAT KANAYA TELLS ME.  
GC: 1M GO1NG TO 1GNOR3 TH4T 4ND JUST ST4RT W4LK1NG NOW  
  
You take the husktop and walk all the way to the wall.  
  
CG: YOU’RE TWENTY FEET CLOSER  
  
You wrangle Karkat into giving you directions until you find yourself one floor down and on the other side of the warship. You’re still in the officers’ section where there isn’t much traffic so you avoid any strange looks from the other inhabitants.  
  
CG: THE TWO TRACKERS ARE JUST TWELVE FEET AWAY FROM EACH OTHER  
  
You’re standing in front of a door. It’s at the end of a flight of stairs, with a single grublight hanging over the doorframe. It has a sign that says ‘Authorized Personnel Only,’ but otherwise it’s just plain white.  
  
You reach out with your mind, and—  
  
There’s darkness beyond that door. It twists around a body lying prone in the center, burning with feverish heat, curling around the body’s mind. You poke at it with your telepathy, afraid of what you’ll find, and the shields around its mind give way immediately. No, more than that—the shields aren’t even there. They’re just gone.  
  
You prod the mind as gently as possible, waiting for the brain’s involuntary call-back signal that you get when you manipul8 someone, that tell-tale psychic response that lets you take hold. It doesn’t come. You prod harder, and instead of rising to meet you it just _yields_ , and you rush in to fill the empty space inside their mind—  
  
There’s someone already there.  
  
You snap your eyes wide open and stumble back. Whatever psychics are behind that door are already sunk deep, and they’ve got the tendrils of their powers twisted so tightly around her brain sponge you’re surprised there’s anything left at all.  
  
Horror rises up in your gut. You lurch forward, hand on the doorknob, ready to wrench it open with every ounce of blueblood strength you have…  
  
But you don’t.  
  
It’s standard conditioning. The Second of every officer with a security clearance as high as yours goes through this process. You are an officer of Her Imperious Condescension’s army, and Terezi is your Auxiliary. She will continue to be your Auxiliary until the night you leave the empress’s service, either through death in battle or death by imperial execution.  
  
No honest troll would ever leave their palemate at the mercy of a torturer.  
  
You’re not an honest troll.  
  
You turn around. You walk back up the stairs, into the elevator, and back to your quarters. The door clicks shut behind you. You set the husktop on the table, pull out a chair, and put your head in your hands, ignoring the messages scrolling across the screen.  
  
It’s cowardly and weak, you know it is, you know that right now you should be running into that awful room with guns blazing and either save her or go out in glory, you shouldn’t just leave her there. Terezi would take dying trying to escape over being twisted into a different person. If you were a proper moirail you’d give her that choice.  
  
But you don’t. Because you are selfish, and you want her to live.  
  
It’s a while before you regain some semblance of self-control and finally read Karkat’s messages.  
  
CG: TEREZI?  
CG: I’M FUCKING SERIOUS, YOU NEED TO STOP IGNORING MY MESSAGES  
CG: IT’S REALLY FREAKY WHEN YOU STAY ONLINE AND JUST STOP RESPONDING  
CG: YOU’RE WAY TOO FUCKING FAR AWAY FROM THE REST OF US.  
CG: EVEN IF YOU’RE NOT EVEN PROPERLY PART OF THE OPERATION, I GUESS.  
CG: I KEEP THINKING SOMEONE CAUGHT YOU AND CULLED YOU ON THE SPOT.  
CG: WHICH YOU WOULD TOTALLY FUCKING DESERVE FOR BEING SUCH A FESTERING, CRYPTIC, SELF-SATISFIED BOIL ON THE WASTECHUTE OF THE UNIVERSE.  
CG: BUT IT WOULD MAKE KANAYA UPSET, SO DON’T DIE, OKAY?  
CG: OH FUCK, I’VE STARTED TO MAKE MYSELF ANXIOUS  
CG: KANAYA ALWAYS TELLS ME NOT TO DO THAT  
CG: OH FUCK  
CG: PLEASE DON’T BE DEAD  
CG: OH FUCK OH FUCK FUCK FUCKY FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUUUUUUUUUCK  
  
\-- [redacted] [CG] ceased trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--  
  
You roll your good eye. This is exactly the kind of wrigglerish stupidity that explains why you didn’t talk to your old friends when you got to the academy. You’re about to shut Terezi’s husktop when the gray indicator blinks again. You groan out loud (gog, you just want to sleep and not think for eight fucking minutes) and squint at the messages.  
  
\-- [redacted] [CG] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--  
  
CG: How Did You Manage To Induce A Panic Attack In Karkat Without Saying A Single Word  
CG: I Would Be Impressed If I Were Not So Annoyed  
CG: As His Moirail I Do Actively Attempt To Avoid Any And All Panic Attacks  
CG: Why Were You Trying To So-Called Find The Presumed Malfunctioning Tracker Implant In The First Place  
CG: Wait Dont Answer  
CG: Allow Me To Log Into My Own Account  
  
\-- [redacted] [CG] ceased trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC]\--  
  
\-- [redacted] [GA] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--  
  
GA: Well  
GC: 1F 1 LOST 1T SOM3WH3R3 1 W4NT3D TO F1ND OUT WH3R3  
GC: SO 1 COULD G3T 1T B4CK  
GA: Its Implanted Into Your Left Shoulder  
GA: I Fail To See How You Could Lose It  
  
You wince.  
  
GC: HOW S1LLY OF M3  
GC: N3V3R M1ND TH3N  
GC: . . . . . . . .   
GC: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   
GC: 4ND YOU C4LL *M3* OUT FOR NOT R3SPOND1NG TO M3SS4G3S  
GA: Youre Not Terezi  
GA: Are You  
GA: Vriska  
  
Fucking figures.  
  
You honestly didn’t think Fussyfangs had the sheer nasty cunning to figure it out. Or to suspect you at all, if she did realize something was off. But you didn’t think she had the guts to interrupt an imperial newsfeed with text from some Sufferist holy text either.  
  
\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] ceased trolling [redacted] [GA] \--  
  
\-- admiralGrandstander [AG] began trolling [redacted] [GA] \--  
  
AG: Hiiiiiiii there!  
AG: ::::)  
GA: What You Have Done With Terezi  
AG: I’m disapp8inted, Fussyfangs.  
AG: We haven’t sp8ken for sweeps, and this is how you say hello?  
AG: Just as 8ossy and meddle-y as I remem8ered you. Didn’t expect the weird cultist stuff, 8ut I suppose life is always full of surprises.  
GA: You Will Not Get Away With This  
AG: Relaaaaaaaax.  
AG: Why would I do anything to Terezi?   
  
That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told. She wanted to be a legislacerator, fight crime, serve the cause of justice, all those clichéd phrases she liked to utter half-facetiously. She had all those dreams, plans, ambitions, things you never understood, and it didn’t occur to you do anything other than discard them out of hand. Because all you could think of was yourself.  
  
You were so lonely.  
  
GA: I Am Not So Stupid As To Believe That  
GA: Im Not Six Sweeps Old Anymore Vriska  
GA: I Wont Fall For Your Lies So Easily  
AG: Jegus, the one time I’m NOT lying and you don’t even 8elieve me.  
AG: I just don’t know where Terezi is right now, that’s all.  
GA: Yes Your Innocence Seems So Plausible  
GA: Thats Why You Snooped Through Her Personal Belongings  
GA: Read Her Private Messages  
GA: Tried To Trick Her Friends Into Finding Her For You When She So Clearly Does Not Want To Be Found  
GA: If She Left In Such A Manner As To Abandon Her Husktop And Refrain From Notifying Her Hatefriends  
GA: I Am Going To Ask You A Question And You Are Going To Answer It  
GA: And Rest Assured  
GA: If I Do Not Receive The Correct Answer I Will Track You Down  
GA: Vriska I Am Making You A Promise  
GA: I Will Hunt You And I Will Cut You Down  
GA: So Tell Me  
GA: What You Did To Terezi  
AG: You want the truth????????  
AG: Fine.  
AG: Terezi’s my Second, ok8y? And she pissed off Condy 8ecause she stuck her neck out for a c8uple of random f8cking aliens from the fucking Land of Uselessness and Rebellion, so she got taken away 8y some clowns for mental conditioning.  
AG: I w8s trying to find her and get her out, except…….. WOOPS!  
AG: I c8mpletely f8cking f8rg8t th8t ev8ry awf8l thing th8t’s h8pp8ning right n8w is T8T8LLY LEG8L and I C8N’T ST8P IT!!!!!!!!  
AG: So 8ack the fuck off, Maryam, 8ecause if I have to deal with you meddling in our 8usiness as if you know the FIRST FUCKING THING a8out us for eight more seconds, I’m going to change my mind a8out hiding your precious little Sufferist operation from the empire.  
GA: Alright  
GA: Supposing That I Were To Temporarily Take You At Your Word  
GA: Based Solely On The Fact That You Warned Karkat About The Drones Invasion  
GA: I Would Ask You  
GA: Is Terezi Is Going To Be Alright   
  
There are tears welling up in your eyes. You force them not to fall. You won’t act weak. You won’t. You kind of want to shut Terezi’s husktop, actually shut it this time and not get sucked into the trollian conversation again, but you haven’t heard from Kanaya in sweeps. And, well. It seems like Terezi is friends with them, and she’d want them to know.  
  
Fuck, what if Terezi comes back and she’s so messed up she’ll want to turn them in? You’d have to stop her, you realize, because if she turned in Kanaya and Karkat and Sollux she’d have to reveal her own acts of treason, and then she’d just go right back to a torture chamber.  
  
AG: I don’t know, okay?  
AG: She won’t come 8ack physically harmed, that would interfere with her duties.  
AG: From what they told us at the officers’ academy the conditioning isn’t supposed to dig around in memories or implant thoughts, it’s just supposed to m8ke the su8ject more compliant.  
AG: 8ut that’s what they do for trolls who get tr8ined specifically to be Auxiliaries, and that’s a process of periodic visits from imperial psychics over two sweeps. And those trolls have a lot of non-psychic conditioning too. All the standard glory-to-the-empire crap. So I don’t have anything to compare the situation to.  
AG: The Condesce was really, really angry.  
AG: 8ut she also essentially pardoned Terezi too.  
AG: If she stays on the straight and narrow she’ll 8e fine.  
GA: Do You Care For Her  
AG: . . . . . . . .   
AG: ????????  
AG: Ummmmmmmm????????  
AG: Yes????????  
AG: We’re dating????????  
AG: Duh????????  
GA: Because She Seems To Care A Lot For You  
GA: Despite Only Having Recently Becoming Reacquainted With You  
GA: I Am Familiar With Your Manipul8tive Methods  
AG: Fussyfangs?  
AG: I remem8er when we were in diamonds, as kids on the homeworld, you used to give me aaaaaaaallllllll sorts of unwanted useless 8oring fussy advice. So I’m going to do you a huuuuuuuuge favor and give you some actually useful advice!  
AG: When you’re talking to someone who is eight fucking millimeters from turning you and all your friends in and having you pu8licly executed, you DON’T accuse them of manipul8ing their palemate.  
GA: Given Your Propensity Toward Pan-Controlling Your Quadrants  
GA: And In Conjunction With The Established Culture Of Military Officers That Leads Them To Treat Their Auxiliaries As Glorified Slaves  
GA: It Seems Extremely Likely  
GA: So Forgive Me If I Am Suspicious Of Your Motives  
AG: Fuck you.  
AG: Still w8ing for a thank you for tipping you off about the culling drones, 8y the w8y.  
AG: Or tipping off your 8ooooyyyyfrieeeeeeeend about the culling drones, if we’re gonna 8e technical. Are you seriously d8ting Cra8s McShouty in pale? Gog, THAT sounds like a nightm8re.  
GA: I Will Ignore The Comment About My Personal Life And Merely Respond With  
GA: Thank You  
GA: Is That Sufficient  
AG: Nope!!!!!!!!  
AG: N8w I’m w8ing for the thank you for when I mindwiped a n8sy legisl8cer8tor who got suspicious a8out Terezi’s ties to the Cult and started p8king around in her personnel file.  
AG: That’s, what, TWO times I’ve saved your sorry, pathetic, lame asses?  
GA: A Legislacerator Suspected Terezi Of Treasonous Action  
AG: That’s a surprise to you?  
AG: Heads up, Maryam, you losers aren’t the 8est at covering your tracks.  
AG: You’re lucky the idiot tried to go to me first. Thought he was doing me a 8iiiiiiiig favor 8y telling me he was investig8ing her.  
GA: But Terezi Doesnt Engage In Treasonous Activities  
GA: Other Than Hiding Our Existence Of Course  
GA: The Only Thing Shes Ever Done Was That Business With Tavros When We Were Eight  
AG: Oh yes, 8ecause the empire cares soooooooo much!  
AG: Even if we hadn’t 8een stationed on the 8attleship Condescension it would’ve just 8een a matter of time 8efore someone accused her.  
AG: It looks like I’m going to 8e stuck cleaning up your messes for a while. 8ecause I don’t trust ANY of you to n8t reveal her name during an imperial interrog8tion.  
AG: Or my name either, shit. Since I’m apparently a co-conspirator now that we’re h8ving this convers8tion.  
AG: So are we, what, planning on t8king over the government?  
GA: As If  
GA: Our Only Goal At First Was To Not Be Dead Since That Would Be The Immediate Result If We Did Not Attempt To Run  
GA: And Then Karkat Was Contacted A Few Perigees Before Ascension  
AG: 8y the cult?  
GA: Yes  
GA: Although Greatly Diminished In Contemporary Times They Were The Ones That Provided Him With Access To The Carpenter Drones And Other Such Amenities That He Would Otherwise Not Possess Since He Was Never Formally Registered With The Empire  
AG: Why wasn’t he f8rmally registered?  
AG: Ooooooooh! Did the cavern jade8loods t8ke one look at him and sl8te him for culling???????? ::::D  
AG: Let’s f8ce it, with the horns it’s 8asically an unav8ida8le c8nclusi8n.  
GA: …  
GA: Are You Making A Joke  
AG: Uhhhhhhhhh. . . . . . . .   
GA: Surely You Know Why Karkat Had To Flee Before Conscription  
AG: Okaaaaaaaay, I was totally thinking it was the horns and the general ina8ility to do anything useful, 8ut. . . . . . . .   
AG: I guess n8t, then?  
AG: Is he s8me kind of mutant?  
GA: Karkat Has A Hemocaste Mutation  
GA: And  
GA: Well  
GA: Do You Remember How You Used To Believe In Ancestors And I Used To Disbelieve You  
GA: His Ancestor Is The Signless Sufferer  
AG: I call hoof8east shit.  
GA: Regardless Of Whatever Religious Or Unreligious Stance Anyone Has On The Matter  
GA: He Does Have Red Blood  
AG: Are you fucking with me right n8w?  
AG: 8ecause if y8u are, I’m never g8ing to f8rgive you.  
GA: Believe Me I Have No Desire To Be Interacting With You At All  
GA: Let Alone Go To The Trouble Of Lying To You  
AG: Oh my goooooooog. That’s so weeeeeeeeird! It’s alm8st hilarious, actually.  
GA: …  
GA: Im Not Sure I Understand The Hilarity But I Also Do Not Wish To Descend Further Into That Hopbeast Hole  
GA: In Any Case  
GA: What I Wanted To Convey Was That Our Only Goal Here Is To Not Die  
GA: And It Somehow Transitioned Into Helping Other Trolls Not Die As Well  
GA: We Have No Intention Of Getting Into Any Revolutionary Conflicts Any Time Soon  
GA: That Would Mean Certain Death And Would Therefore Defeat The Entire Purpose Of Our Operation  
AG: Okaaaaaaaay, 8ut who is actually in charge?  
GA: We Are A Collaborative Effort  
GA: United In The Desire To Continue Inflating And Deinflating Our Air Sacks  
AG: 8ut who gives the orders? Who has the p8wer????????  
GA: Power Is Immaterial When We Are Just Trying To Live To See The Next Night  
GA: But I Suppose I Do Most Of The Ordering Around  
AG: Oh.  
AG: Well, at least it isn’t Vantas.  
GA: If You Asked Most Of The Trolls Here They Would Point To Karkat As The Leader  
GA: He Is The Spearhead Of The Cause For The More  
GA: Um  
GA: Fervent  
GA: Trolls In Our Organization  
GA: So He Mostly Engages With The Cultists Why I Take Care Of The Practicalities With Sollux To Provide Technological Backup  
GA: And By Engages With The Cultists I Mostly Mean Act Grumpy And Skeptical While They Mutter Incomprehensible Scripture Over His Head  
GA: But It Seems To Keep The Cultists Happy And That Is All I Ask For  
AG: N8t that I wouldn’t loooooooove to c8ntinue this c8nvers8tion, 8ut I have to go and lecture at an army of over a milli8n trolls now. The empress’s PR department has a whole inspir8tional speech with fish puns and everything.  
GA: I Am Not Unhappy To Be Ending This Conversation  
GA: At All  
AG: That m8kes two of us, then.   
  
\-- admiralGrandstander [AG] ceased trolling [redacted] [GA] \--  
  
You go. You give your speech. There are five hundred people on the battleship there to listen in person, picking up supplies and revised directives for their units, and there’s a stream that sends your words out to the rest of the legion. A lot of them are sporting obvious wounds, but they still whisper your name with wide eyes when you walk into view. You think that ordinarily you’d be gratified and proud, but you’ve had your fill of brainwashed obedience for the night.  
  
)(IC: ya know i littorally told you t)(e fis)( puns were mandatory  
)(IC: and w)(at do you do  
)(IC: you take out every single coddamn one  
)(IC: but good job on t)(e w)(ole inspirays)(oal manner and intimidating presence and all t)(at i guess  
  
You don’t bother answering. The PR department has already released a glowing acclimation of the event, which features photographs with an annoyingly straightened-up version of your nose. You start to feel disgust roiling in your stomach halfway through reading it, so you just download it so you can go back to it when you're in a better mood.

When you return to your quarters Terezi’s husktop is beeping again, but you just silence it and go to sleep—the one thing you swore you weren’t going to do again.  
  
Halfway through the day you wake up again and fiddle with the strange controls on the coon until it turns warmer by a few degrees. It’s been less than eight days and you’re already used to Terezi’s tealblood body heat. It still doesn’t stop the daymares.  
  
The second time you wake up, it’s because of an obnoxiously loud alarm. You bolt out of the recuperacoon, thinking that it sounds like the kind of alarm that probably means “the warship is under heavy fire so get off your ass,” but it turns out it’s just a different kind of notification signal from the giant TV on the wall. You can’t figure out how to turn it off in time to spare your hearing, so you resort to punching the screen. It doesn’t work.  
  
By the time three minutes have passed and you’ve figured out how to lower the volume, you’ve also managed to figure out what the notification is for.  
  
_ATTENTION: CH. AUX. T. PYROPE HAS SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED PROFESSION-RELATED MENTAL CONDITIONING._  
  
You’re eighty percent sure you put your shirt on inside out. You’re one hundred percent sure you’ve gone past the point of caring. You don’t think you’ve ever read a map and walked a thousand yards so quickly in your life.  
  
Your Global Positioning Systerrorisim directs you to a neat little medbay that looks familiar in a fuzzy sort of way. You notice a few alarmed expressions from the nurseradicators and realize one of them is probably the guy whose arm you tore off a few nights ago in your captured-Terezi-induced highblood rage. You just narrow your gaze menacingly and walk past them.  
  
And there she is.  
  
She’s standing next to a cot, her back facing you, nodding while a mediculler tells her something. Your breath catches. Her hair is perfectly brushed, her uniform has been cleaned and neatly pressed, and her legislacerator’s noose is professionally wound twice around her waist.  
  
The mediculler notices you and stands to attention. Terezi turns.  
  
You see no visible injuries, her stance is easy and lacking a limp, she’s giving you a razor-sharp smile. The only thing out of place is a single hairline fracture running down the left lens of her ocular shades. She looks… alright. Not like you’d expect after nights of extreme mental torture.  
  
“Hello!” she chirps. “You didn’t do anything particularly stupid while I was gone, did you?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got sick this weekend and i couldnt concentrate on anything "productive," so i cONCENTRATED ON THIS FIC INSTEAD 
> 
> it was great
> 
> anyways, if you guys were like "when is this fic going to be happy and fluffy again," then fear not: ch. 7 has actual fluff in it!! it will be posted next sunday, like usual


	7. and when thy heart began to beat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys this chapter includes ~happiness~!! yes i am as surprised as you
> 
> its maybe 1,000 words longer than usual too
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: discussions of abuse, mentions of torture, kinda sorta graphic violence (like sorta graphic but def not as graphic as the rest of this fic ig), brief descriptions of injuries

_You didn’t do anything particularly stupid while I was gone, did you?_ “It depends on what you think ‘stupid’ means,” you say, thinking about the ridiculous Sufferist hopbeast hole you’ve managed to dig for yourself. Which is still _totally_ Terezi’s fault, by the way.  
  
She raises her eyebrows and looks like she’s going to say something, but then she sniffs the air inquisitively. She steps toward you, and for a second you think she’s going for a hug, and you are _so ready_ for that hug—you never realize how awesome physical contact is until it’s not a thing anymore—except instead she sticks her down the back of your jacket and wiggles it around.  
  
You yelp. “The fuck?!” You try to wriggle away, but she keeps scrabbling at the cloth (sharp claws, ow, ow) until there’s the sound of cloth tearing. She retrieves her hand, which is holding a small, round black object.  
  
“Surveillance bug,” says Terezi cheerfully. “You can tell by the special kind of plastic smell. How long have you been wearing that jacket?”  
  
You tug at your collar self-consciously. “Maybe a few hours, I don’t know.”  
  
“Well, I sincerely hope you didn’t plot any treasonous shenanigans out loud while you were wearing it!”  
  
At the mention of treasonous shenanigans your smile stretches into a grim rictus. There’s the merest flicker of acknowledgment on her face to show that she saw your reaction, then she begins to stride toward the door.  
  
“Come on,” she calls over her shoulder. “We have work to do—or at least _I_ do. They really should give you some kind of warning notice before they torture their way through the rewriting process for your mental circuitry for half a week, because I have so many messages right now that my palmhusk would not open for a solid half an hour.”  
  
You’re kind of upset that she’s been released from her torture session for a whole half hour without contacting you. You’re aware this is, by some standards, irrational. You give zero fucks.  
  
“I have your husktop in my sylladex if you want,” you offer.  
  
“I’ll deal with it later, my top priority requires that giant videogrub in your quarters. I mean, I assume you have a large videogrub of some type? It seems like exactly the kind of amenity an upper-caste general would demand to possess during their downtime. I never did get to see your new block. I assume you’re up to your leg hinges in paperwork as well?”  
  
“Um, not really? I had to give a speech—which was fucking badass, by the way, I have a recording of it so you can listen to how awesome I was—and I talked over strategy with the Condesce. I’m taking over the Drinerus front,” you add proudly.  
  
“Yes, I know. It’s amazing how much paperwork is required when the command of a major military front is transferred from one officer to another. As much as I enjoy the scent of wood-pulp-based office products, I am very grateful for the existence of electronic devices because otherwise you would have to fish me out of a quite literal mountain of all the paperwork.”  
  
“Yeah, sure it was a lot. But was it really aaaaaaaallllllll the paperwork?” You nudge her with an elbow.  
  
“Perhaps not that. But at least eight-times-eight-to-the-eighth tons!”  
  
Your grin is splitting your face in two and it has nothing to do with the content of your conversation. She just sounds so _normal_. “So what do you need the TV in my room for?”  
  
“Drama. I want to present my strategic decisions vis-a-vis Rose and Dave to the empress through an appropriately dramatic medium. A wall-spanning videogrub fits that criteria.”  
  
“I thought you already presented your strategic recommendations?”  
  
“Ha! No, I told her that there was no feasible way to convince them to go along civilly with her plans to use them for universal domination. That was an outright lie. The truth is that although Rose will be difficult to handle even if the empress really does go through with leaving Earth alone, taking into consideration Rose’s obvious desire for vengeance against trollkind… but Dave will fold like a shoddily stacked house of cards if his friends are threatened. I don’t care how differently he grew up in this reality, he’s Dave Strider—he can’t resist an opportunity to do something self-destructive to protect his friends. It doesn’t take Mind powers to deduce that particular fact.”  
  
“You seem to know these aliens well.” Is it weird to be jealous of weird troll-like aliens from a planet that isn’t even advanced enough to have faster-than-light travel?  
  
“Yes. Yes, I do.” She chews on her lip. “The Condesce sent me a message—on my trollian, gog knows how she got it—that said you went to visit Rose, but she wasn’t able to give you a solution to your lost memories.”  
  
“…about those memories.”  
  
“No, I don’t know how to get them back,” says Terezi before you can reopen your mouth. “We could speak to Rose, though, and see if she has any suggestions. Ha. _See_. Get it? Because—” She looks at your puzzled expression. “Never mind.”  
  
Okay, but she still needs to answer some important questions, regardless of how ecstatic you are that she’s alive and in possession of a functioning consciousness. You put a hand on her shoulder to get her to slow down, and—  
  
—she flinches.  
  
She twists around and stumbles out of your reach. Her wiry frame shakes, her expression wild and terrified. Her cane clatters to the floor. You withdraw your hand.  
  
Then the moment passes, and she grabs her cane and straightens up. “Well, that was a silly little reflex reaction,” she says, laughing awkwardly. “Now time to pretend it never happened!”  
  
Terezi continues walking, faster this time. You’re not sure just ignoring the issue is a good idea, but, well. You’re selfish. You both want to pretend that everything is just the same as before.  
  
But you make sure to linger a little before following, making sure your horns are tilted backward unthreateningly and there’s enough space between you and her. You’ve seen these symptoms before.  
  
When you killed that one girl in training, after she stabbed you in the stomach and you came back to life—which, now that you think about it, was probably something related to the “human” alien bullshit—half your class was questioned about the incident, including you. You were the only one who didn’t come out of interrogation twitching at the slightest sign of a threat. And those were the toughest, cruelest, strongest seadweller cadets in the empire.  
  
Back then you hadn’t given a shit, because you were the only one who had the experience to look around and realize that the academy’s sudden attack of the heebie jeebies was a result of mild chucklevoodoo-style manipulation. You went into the interrogation room expecting a _lot_ worse, but it turned out the legislacerator was no higher than olive, and you were fairly sure the pathetic prods at your mental shields were coming from some high-end technology installed “secretly” in the room rather than a trained psychic.  
  
Back then, it felt good to be stronger than the others. This… is not something that makes you feel strong.  
  
You and Terezi keep up the meaningless small talk. (The two of you have always been very good at that.) You tell her about your strategy for getting rid of the Drinerus problem as cheaply and quickly as possible, she tells you that she’s impressed that your plans are more advanced than “wave your sword at the enemy, shout dramatically, and see what happens,” which is how you operated back when you were FLARPing together. Then she points out three major holes in your plan and informs you that as soon as “the Rose and Dave situation” is sorted out she’s gong to send the Condesce a very, very long explanation of why Alternia has been fucking up so badly with the Drinerus.  
  
When you get back to your quarters, you point the door to her adjoining quarters. “Through there is your room—er, block. It’s got some good walls for drawing on! If that’s still your thing nowanights?”  
  
“I may not feel the urge to use every flat surface within reach as canvas, but I do have a fondness for pinning printouts to the wall with thumbtacks and red string during the investigation part of a trial,” she admits, putting a claw to her chin. “I suppose it could have a functionality when considering our strategy.” Then she frowns. “Why did they put the contents of my transport modus in this smaller block?”  
  
“Um, because you’re supposed to live here whenever we’re not away on campaigns?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re sharing the large block.”  
  
“But… it’s mine.”  
  
“Says who?” Terezi picks up a piece of your discarded clothing, sniffs its sopor-soaked surface, then tosses it into the wardrobifier.  
  
“Whoever organized the room assignments, I guess. The point is, it’s _mine._ ”  
  
“So, you’re saying the empress could have decreed the block arrangements should be that way.”  
  
“Exactly!”  
  
“Fuck the empress,” says Terezi. “Where’s the distance-traveling videogrub operator?”  
  
You toss her the remote. (You’re smiling slightly; perhaps the insurgent streak hasn’t been totally wrung out of her?) She fiddles with the TV’s settings by first accidentally turning to the patriotic music channel, swearing at the loud blast of Troll Ke$ha singing about how sexy military service is, turning the screen off entirely and licking the buttons on the remote carefully before proceeding further, then finally switching it to the correct channel.  
  
You don’t realize that it’s reflecting Terezi’s husktop screen until too late. Trollian is open. The conversation between you and Kanaya is clearly visible.  
  
Terezi stills. You can see the progression of increasingly worried emotions run across her face, then watch as they are suppressed by her self-control. She turns to you and asks—in a high-pitched, too-quiet voice—“Did I turn them in?”  
 You blink.  
  
“I don’t remember the last few nights, not past the first part,” she continues. Her fists are clenched, bright teal spots emerging where her claws press hard into her skin. “Did I tell the Condesce about them?”  
  
You shake your head.

She shuts her eyes in relief. “Good.”  
   
You take a breath. “Some legislacerator named Peikeo Mirkai showed up asking questions about you. There’s a video of you rescuing Tavros from his infirmity culling sentence and he ran it through the vocal registration database. He got a hold of your name and was all like ‘you should totally have your Auxiliary executed now’ and I was like ‘I think it’s time for you to suddenly forget all about this investigation’ and guess who won? Me, that’s the answer, it was me, because I am awesome and in possession of awesome manipul8tion powers. Except then I was like ‘wow, my girlfriend is a Sufferist insurgent’ so I looked through your husktop to see what else you were hiding.”  
  
“Oh,” says Terezi softly. “Are you angry?”  
  
_“Yes!”_ You want to grab her by the shoulders and shake, but you still have enough awareness to  remember that she flinched away from you in the hallway. “You didn’t think that was relevant information to tell me before we walked onto the fucking Battleship Condescension? What, did you think I would turn you in? Fuck you!”  
  
“I,” her specs are slipping oh fuck it looks like she’s on the verge of tears, fuck, why can’t you just _keep your mouth shut._ “I, sort of, it… I hadn’t talked to you for four and a half sweeps and you went off to become one of the empress’s generals. There wasn’t any reason for you to _not_ turn me in.”  
  
“No _reason?_ I don’t know, maybe because _I care about you?_ And I thought those feelings were mutual enough for you to actually _trust_ me?”  
  
She’s looking down and away to you so you can’t see her face. Fuck, if she’s actually crying right now you’re going to die right here, right now. “Fucking shit, Terezi, my job description is killing aliens, not hunting down cultists.”  
  
Though that is very much the job you handed yourself when you spoke up in that meeting the other night. Well, you had to establish credibility for yourself somehow, didn’t you?  
  
Terezi nods, looking down. There’s a long, awful silence, and then she speaks up. “I should message Karkat. He’s probably worrying about me. Even though I expressly told him not to.”  
  
“Yeah, I bet,” you say, relieved to talk about something else. “Is his relationship with Fussyfangs not going well or something? Totally seemed like he was crushing on you pale.”  
  
“No, he’s just like that with everyone,” she says, giving you a wavering smile. It’s not her usual shark-toothed grin, but you’re glad for it anyways. “He always cares too much.”  
  
She pulls out a holographic keyboard from a controller in the wall you didn’t see before and starts typing. You wonder if you’re not supposed to be looking over her shoulder, but she doesn’t shoo you away. (You don’t get too close.)

\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] began trolling [redacted] [CG] \--  
  
GC: ON3 MOM3NT  
  
\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] has changed their name to galacticCalamity [GC]! --  
  
GC: TH3R3  
GC: F4R MOR3 1N K33P1NG W1TH MY CURR3NT JOB D3SCR1PT1ON  
GC: 4NW4YS, 4POLOG13S FOR TH3 SURPR1S3 VR1SK4 1NC1D3NT  
GC: SH3 S4YS SH3S SORRY BUT SH3 H4D TO US3 COV3RT T4CT1CS 1N TH3 1NT3R3ST OF S4F3TY  
  
“I do?”  
  
“Of course you do,” answers Terezi cheerfully.  
  
CG: PROVE IT.  
CG: I WANT PROOF THAT YOU’RE REALLY PYROPE.  
CG: AND THIS PROOF BETTER BE SOLID. SO SOLID, IN FACT, THAT THE BEDROCK HOLDING UP OUR CURRENT PATCH OF LAND ON THIS NEW PLANET WILL EJECT DISTRESS FLUID IN SHAME AND IMMEDIATELY SUCCUMB TO OVERFLOWING MAGMA UPON HEARING THIS PROOF.  
  
“Look, you said I apologized for tricking his lame ass,” you tell Terezi. “I wouldn’t think you were telling the truth either.”  
  
GC: W3LL TH3N  
GC: 1M NOT SUR3 1 FOLLOW3D 4LL TH4T  
GC: BUT 1N 4NY C4S3  
GC: PR3P4R3 TO H4V3 YOUR N3W H34DQU4RT3RS SUDD3NLY D3SC3ND 1NTO SP3W1NG L4V4  
GC: 1 KNOW HOW YOU F1RST 4SK3D K4N4Y4 OUT  
CG: HA! I CALL YOUR HOOFBEASTSHIT RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.  
CG: TEREZI WASN’T EVEN ON THAT SIDE OF THE GALAXY WHEN WE GOT TOGETHER.  
CG: SPIDERBITCH: ZERO. KARKAT MOTHERFUCKING VANTAS, SUPREME LEADER OF THE FOLLOWERS OF THE IRON INFIDEL, THE SECOND INCARNATION OF THE SIGNLESS SUFFERER: EIGHT BILLION.  
GC: 1 4M 4FR41D 1 MUST LOV1NGLY POK3 HOL3S 1N YOUR D3L1C1OUSLY D3L1GHTFUL SC4RLET INNOCENCE BUBBL3  
GC: SOLLUX L1V3BLOGG3D 1T  
GC: H3 S41D TH4T F1RST YOU W3NT TO G1V3 H3R SOM3 WH1T3 ROS3S 3XC3PT NOTH1NG L1K3 TH4T GR3W ON YOUR PL4N3T  
GC: SO YOU W3NT TO H3R BLOCK TO G1V3 H3R SOM3 3XP3NS1V3 R34L1ST1C WH1T3 ROS3 CLOTH-B4S3D R3PL1C4S WH1CH YOU ORD3R3D 3SP3C14LLY ONL1N3  
GC: 3XC3PT YOU F41L3D TO R34L1ZE TH4T MISS SOUR CANDY GR33N H4T3D TH4T P4RT1CUL4R TYP3 OF CLOTH  
GC: SH3S 4LL3RG1C TO 1T 1N F4CT  
GC: YOU L3FT TH3 FLOW3RS D1SCR33TLY OUTS1D3 H3R R3SP1T3BLOCK  
GC: 4ND SH3 R3TURN3D 4FT3R 4 LONG, T1R1NG D4Y 1N TH3 F13LD  
GC: SO T1R3D, 1N F4CT, TH4T SH3 COMPL3T3LY D1D NOT NOT1C3 TH3 ROM4NT1C TOK3N LY1NG ON H3R DOORST3P  
GC: 4T TH4T PO1NT, SOLLUX S41D L1V3BLOGG1NG W4S G3TT1NG BOR1NG 4ND NOTH1ING W4S 4CTU4LLY H4PP3NING, SO H3 STOPP3D  
GC: ONLY TO R3SUM3 4BRUPTLY WH3N, 4CCORD1NG TO H1S R3PORT, TH3R3 W4S TH3 SOUND OF 4 CH41NS4W 4T TOP SP33D 4ND 4 P13RC1NG GLOW TH4T W4S SO BR1GHT 1T W4S 1MPOSS1BL3 TO 1GNOR3  
GC: H3 S41D H3 W3NT TO 1NV3ST1G4T3 B3C4US3 1T G4V3 H1M 4 H34D4CH3  
GC: ONLY TO F1ND K4N4Y4 T34R1NG H3R ROOM TO P13C3S, TRY1NG TO F1ND TH3 SOURC3 OF WH4T SH3 R3F3RR3D TO 4S TH3 “1MP3R14LLY 3NG1N33R3D 4ND D1SP4TCH3D B4CT3R1A”  
GC: SH3 W4S COV3R3D 1N H1V3S 4ND NOT V3RY LUC1D  
GC: TH3N YOU 4RR1V3D  
GC: S4W H3R 1N D1STR3SS, OBV1OUSLY 1N N33D OF 4 C4LM1NG FROND  
GC: 4ND, W3LL  
GC: TH4TS WH3R3 M1ST3R 4PPL3B3RRY BL4ST CL41MS TH1NGS GOT R4TH3R PORNOGR4PH1C  
GC: >  8]  
GC:  >8]  
GC: >  8]  
GC:  >8]

“Seriously?” you giggle. Terezi nods smugly.  
  
CG: I WOULD HAVE PREFERRED SERKET IF IT MEANT AVOIDING THE EYEBROWS  
CG: I HATE THE EYEBROWS  
GC: 4DM1T TH4T YOU S3CR3TLY LOV3 TH3 3Y3BROWS 4ND 1 W1LL L34V3 YOU 4LON3  
CG: FUCK OFF, I HATE THE EYEBROWS  
CG: AND I KNOW YOU, YOU’RE NOT GOING TO STOP TROLLING ME UNTIL YOU FEEL LIKE IT  
CG: SO THE EYEBROW DISCUSSION IS AN IRRELEVANCY

“One grouchy mutant reassured,” you say. “What next?”  
  
“He’s still typing,” Terezi points out.  
  
“Bet it’s not gonna be anything iiiiiiiinteresting.”  
  
She tilts her head in her ‘pretending to be contemplative’ expression. “I should start a tally for how many times you’re mean to someone per night, so that if the tally gets too high I can make you stand in a corner.”  
  
“That was just a little teasing!” you protest. “Sounds like he needs to toughen up anyway. Besides, I didn’t even say it to his face!”  
  
“I’m going to call it the Socially Inept Vriska Time-out Corner.”  
  
You deliver a scathing retort back, but she doesn’t hear you. Gray text is unfolding on her screen.  
  
CG: HEY, PYROPE.  
CG: I HAVE AN ACTUAL QUESTION TO ASK YOU.  
CG: SINCE IT’S REALLY YOU AND EVERYTHING.  
GC: >:?  
GC: 4SK 4W4Y  
CG: KANAYA SAID THAT VRISKA DID NOT APPEAR TO BE TOTALLY EVIL  
CG: AND THAT SHE WAS THE ONE WHO MADE SURE WE DIDN’T GET GRABBED BY THE CULLING DRONES  
CG: BUT SHE’S ALSO A GENERAL OF THE CONDESCE, ISN’T SHE?  
GC: 4DM1R4L 4CTU4LLY  
GC: 1TS 4 H1GH3R R4NK  
  
“You’re damn right it is!” you fume.  
  
But Terezi’s frowning, like she knows what Karkat’s going to ask next.  
  
CG: WHATEVER  
CG: KANAYA SAID SHE WAS ENJOYING HER JOB  
CG: AND I LOOKED HER UP IN THE GOSSIP RAGS AND APPARENTLY HER CULLCOUNT AT THE OFFICER’S ACADEMY WAS OVER HUNDRED IN THREE-QUARTERS OF A SWEEP ALONE  
CG: THAT’S A RECORD FOR THAT ACADEMY.  
GC: W3LL TH3Y DONT G1V3 YOU TH3 JOB B4S3D ON HOW S3XY YOU LOOK 1N 4 UN1FORM  
  
“Hey, I’m plenty sexy in a uniform.”  
  
She turns her head and tilts her glasses intentionally so that you can see her roll her eyes, then turns back to the trollian app.  
  
CG: FUCK  
CG: I DON’T KNOW HOW TO ASK THIS.  
CG: IS SHE PISSED AT YOU FOR KEEPING US A SECRET?  
CG: ARE YOU SAFE?  
  
“Oh, fuck that piece of shit!” you shout, crossing your arms. But part of your mind tells you _you’re the reason she was there at all she flinched away from you it’s your fault—_  
  
GC: GOG NO 1M NOT S4F3  
GC: 1M 1NVOLV3D 1N TWO S3P4R4T3 TR34SON 4TT3MPTS 4T ON3 T1M3  
GC: 4ND 1 NOW L1V3 ON TH3 B4TTL3SH1P COND3SC3NS1ON  
GC: 1 4M 1N D4NG3R 4T 4LL T1M3S  
GC: BUT FROM VR1SK4?  
GC: NO. N3V3R.  
CG: GOOD.  
CG: UGH, I WANT TO SAY THAT IF YOU EVER NEED SOMEWHERE TO STAY KANAYA’S HIVE IS ALWAYS OPEN, BUT IT’S NOT THE HOMEWORLD. YOU CAN'T JUST SKIP OUT IF YOU WANT TO.  
GC: 1 DONT W4NT TO  
GC: L34V3  
GC: 1 DONT W4NT TO L34V3 TH1S PL4C3  
CG: LEAVE SERKET OR THE BATTLESHIP?  
GC: N31TH3R  
CG: …OKAY, I CAN UNDERSTAND THE SERKET THING IF YOU’RE REALLY IN A RELATIONSHIP AND ALL, BUT YOU WERE COERCED INTO THIS.  
GC: 1 KNOW  
GC: TH3OR3T1C4LLY SP34K1NG 1 SHOULD B3 V3RY UPS3T TH4T 1 H4V3 NO PL4US1BL3 M34NS OF 3SC4P3 FROM H3R COND3SC3NS1ON  
GC: BUT 1 4M NOT  
  
That doesn’t sound good. That doesn’t sound good at all. “Terezi?” you ask quietly, wondering the tactful way to bring up the topic of mental reconditioning.  
  
CG: OH FUCK IS THIS A MINDFUCK THING  
GC: 1T 1S L1K3LY  
CG: SO IT’S POSSIBLE THAT YOU’RE NOT SAFE THERE.  
CG: FROM VRISKA.  
CG: SINCE YOUR PERCEPTION OF THE SITUATION COULD BE FAULTY.  
CG: FUCK, THIS IS PROBABLY A POINTLESS LINE OF QUESTIONING IF THE CONDESCE’S CLOWNS HAVE FUCKED UP YOUR SPONGE SO THAT YOU TRUST VRISKA UNCONDITIONALLY, BUT JUST  
CG: BE CAREFUL, YOU KNOW?  
CG: KEEP YOUR STRIFE SPECIBUS ON YOUR PERSON AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE, THAT KIND OF THING.  
GC: 1 DO TH4T 4NYW4YS K4RK4T  
GC: BUT MY TRUST 1N H3R H4S NOT CH4NG3D S1NC3 B3FOR3 MY TORTUR3 S3SS1ON  
GC: MY L4CK OF D3S1R3 TO 3SC4P3 MY CURR3NT 4SS1GNM3NT 1S TH3 ONLY ABRUPT P3RSON4L1TY CH4NG3 TH4T H4S OCCURR3D 4S F4R 4S 1 KNOW  
GC: YOU DO NOT N33D TO WORRY  
GC: 4R3 YOU SUFF1C13NTLY R34SSUR3D?  
CG: …  
CG: “SUFFICIENTLY” IS A TOUGH BAR TO REACH, BUT I WOULD CONSIDER MYSELF MORE REASSURED THAN BEFORE, YES.  
GC: W1TH TH4T 1N ORD3R, 1 H4V3 TO GO!  
  
\-- galacticCalamity [GC] ceased trolling [redacted] [CG] \--  
  
You’re scared that if you talk about it, the illusion will shatter and you’ll have to stop pretending the problem doesn’t exist. But you have to say it.  
  
“But,” you say to Terezi. “You—you’re scared of me.”  
  
She pauses, silent. Her spectacles come off, are folded, and dropped in her her sylladex. She massages her temples as if she has a headache. “My reflexes are,” she finally says. “As far as I can tell, my instincts have been programmed to fear you. Not all the time, just when my behavior could be considered impertinent or disobedient. Or when I speak ill of the higher castes.”  
  
You want to throw up. The worst part is this isn’t something you can fix. You don’t have the type of powers or the skill to remove such ingrained, expert conditioning. You’re Vriska Serket, and you don’t lose. But this isn’t something you can beat.  
  
“My mind knows you, though,” she says, voice still uncharacteristically quiet. You wonder if her programming is telling her not to piss you off by talking loudly. “I know who you are, I know who I am. I would never betray Karkat.”  
  
“Then you can work on it,” you say, suddenly hopeful. “We can do some research, some experimenting, and see if we can make it so your conscious mind overrules the subconscious. I’d need to poke around in your head, but—”  
  
She jerks forward. “No,” she says, voice cracking. _“No._ Not—not that. Please, I—”  
  
Your eyes widen. “Oh. Shit, sorry. Didn’t mean to suggest you go through the same sort of thing again. That’s not what I was talking about, I thought maybe—” Her shoulders are tensing again and for once in your life, you decide it’s time to shut up.  
  
“Maybe we can talk about it later,” she says. Her tone indicates that she never, ever wants to bring up the subject again. “Just. Not right now.”  
  
“Yeah, sorry, of course, sorry,” you say, backing away a couple of steps.  
  
Oh look, the Awkward Silence Gremlin has returned. You shift on your feet nervously while Terezi stares blankly into space, until eventually she puts her glasses back on and stands up. “Fuck dramatic gestures, I’ll just send the writeup to the Condesce over trollian,” she mutters. “I’m too tired for drama.”  
  
“I can set the ‘coon to a warmer setting, if you want,” you offer.  
  
“Later.” She stretches and walks toward you. She raises an arm hesitantly, hand hovering above you shoulder. “Can I…?”  
  
You sweep her into a crushing hug. A frightened hiss reminds you that you’ve lost track of your claws and they’re poking through her jacket. “Sorry!” you squeak, trying to lighten your hold, but you’re so happy to have the contact that it’s hard to remember why you should. She’s just so warm against you.  
  
“Is this okay?” you ask softly.  
  
She nods, face pressed to your collarbone. “I’ll admit, the hug idea was initially an experiment to test my limits, but now I don’t want to let go.”  
  
“Oh,” you say, happily rubbing the flats of your palms in circles over her back. “I hope you drew some favorable conclusions?”  
  
“Well, I experienced a great deal of instinctual unease with you staring directly at me and looking upset,” she says. “It’s completely gone now. I suspect my pan is also keyed to react favorably to pale advances from you in particular.”  
  
Your smile falls. “ _Oh_. Does that mean we shouldn’t…”  
  
“No, my logical conscious is in agreement with my instincts right now. You’re soft and highly cuddle-able! And your concern for obtaining my consent and ensuring my general well-being is duly noted and appreciated. Very romantic and not evil at all. Good job.” She presses a tiny kiss to your shoulder.  
  
“Yesss!!” It takes a few tries, but you eventually succeed in a complex maneuver where you shift your weight so you can hook an arm around Terezi’s legs and pick her up without releasing your hug. By the time you figure it out she’s snort-giggling at your ineptitude, so you drop her unceremoniously on the pile in retaliation.  
  
She sniffs around her. “Oh come on, I’d bet fifty caegars this is literally just all the clothes you pulled out of the wardrobifier this evening because you couldn’t decide what to wear.”  
  
“I left them there intentionally,” you defend. “My new uniforms are fucking badass.”  
  
“Yeah, sure.” She rolls her eyes at you.  
  
You throw a bunch of scalemates in her direction. “Ha! Take that!”  
  
“As if you could ever defeat me,” she scoffs. She deflects them expertly with her cane and then tucks them into the pile of clothes so that the pile forms a more solid shape.  
  
You grab a stack of hefty legal texts. “Why are these so heavy?” you groan. Maybe you need to brush up on your strength training.  
  
“Don’t bother, I don’t want them,” Terezi says. “Wait, no. I want the Complete Alternian Military Law.”  
  
The Complete Alternian Military Law is three huge volumes. You toss them at the pile and captchalogue the rest. Who knows, she could change her mind later.  
  
Once you have a proper pile going, you add some blankets over the top and go for your husktop to find the app that controls the air conditioning. “Do you want it hot or cold?” If it was cold you’d find more reasons to snuggle, but her warmer blood probably wouldn’t like that, especially if she was crammed against someone with a lower body temperature.  
  
“Turn the temp up a few degrees,” she tells you. “Your skin is nice and chilly. And hurry up!”  
  
When you change the settings and walk back over, she’s curled up under a blanket, hugging a scalemate and looking at you with wide, sorrowful eyes over the top of her glasses. “I’m lonely,” she says, pouting.  
  
“Oh my gog, how much porn do you _watch?_ ”  
  
She quits the act and cackles. “Watch it, Miss Blueberry, I’ve seen your browser history.”  
  
You shrug off your jacket and plop down onto the pile. “You’re an awful, awful moirail.”  
  
She opens her mouth to say something, but you put your hands on her shoulders and push her backward into the pile, massaging into her muscles, and instead she gives the tiniest little sigh. You snatch off her specs and kiss her forehead, then the bridge of her nose. She smiles a little, eyes closed, and you lay yourself down next to her so your bodies pressed beside each other, keeping up the massage.  
  
She twists so that she’s facing you, reaching out to stroke the side of your face. She’s already purring. “Wow, you’re an easy touch,” you say.  
  
You think she’s trying to say “shut up,” except it comes out unrecognizably mangled from the purr. She punches you in the shoulder—“hey!” you yelp—and then goes back to stroking your cheek absently.  
  
The fact of the matter is that you’re right, and while you’re enjoying the current softness and closeness _a whole fucking lot_ , she’s far less experienced in conciliatory stuff than you and it’s way easier to get Terezi to the point where she can’t remember how to do fine motor control. By the time she stops attempting snarky comebacks, you’re purring too, and you're ready to... do nothing, as it happens, because that’s when your doorbell rings.  
  
You groan loudly. You have the worst fucking life.

Terezi stirs and makes a distressed sound; you kiss her temple. “Just one sec,” you whisper, tracing the shape of a diamond into her palm.  
  
You don’t recognize the troll standing outside your door with a douchey haircut and circular bottlecap lenses, so you just raise your eyebrows expectantly.  
  
“Hhhhi! I’m the assistant hhhead of Hhher Imperious Condescension’s propaganda department,” he says cheerily, his H’s whistling through the gap in his front teeth. “I sent you several messages, which I think you may hhhave deleted?”  
  
You put an extra growl in your voice in an attempt to disguise the pleased chirring sound that’s trying to emerge from your thorax. “I’m. Busy.”  
  
He glances over your shoulder, where Terezi is poking her head over the top of the pile and pouting—in a fully genuine and highly pitiful manner—and then he looks at your rumpled clothes. “Ohhh,” he says. “Should I come back later?”  
  
You slam the door in his face.  
  
Terezi is still pouting, and when you try to slip back next to her she pushes you away, giving you the universal ‘wait a moment’ signal with her hands. She clears her throat until she can speak in something other than a purr, then announces, “I bet you two hundred caegars right now that if that was the head of the propaganda division, then the imperial gossip feeds tomorrow night will feature an ‘Exclusive!!’ story about the ‘saucy!!!!’ conciliatory lifestyle of Admiral Serket and her Second.”  
  
“I _hate_ the propaganda department. Did I tell you they wrote me an hour-long speech with fish puns in literally every fucking sentence?”  
  
“They sent me an email complaining about how you left them out. And another few asking if their messages got lost on their way to your inbox or if you were just ignoring them.” She does the eyebrow-flick thing that is her way of rolling her eyes, since eye-rolling doesn’t work for trolls whose oculars are featureless red orbs. “It’s like we went back a century and they think I’m the stereotypical lowblooded moirail who sticks to non-leaderlike assignments, keeps their partner from doing rash things, and expects nothing in return.”  
  
“I think everyone on this ship thinks that,” you say glumly. “And everyone who regularly reads the imperial gossip feeds. The propaganda department also seems really keen on enforcing traditional social roles. Sorry.”  
  
She paps your face. “Hey. We agreed not to delve further into the angst tunnel in relation to my assignment here. Besides, the Condesce admitted to placing you in the officer’s training academy because she knew you were a Thief of Light—she might have recruited me for a similar position regardless of whether or not you requested me as your Second.”  
  
“If it’s impossible to get my memories back, then you really have to give me a full explanation of what all of that means. It’s getting, like, _really_ annoying.” As you talk, you run your fingers through her hair.  
  
“We should go see Rose as soon as possible,” she says, nodding and leaning into your hand. “But before that…” She runs a hand down the curve of your horn, resting at the base. “Can I?”  
  
You almost choke in surprise. Then you nod rapidly, eyes wide. She grins.  
  
You always had more fun with the ashen and pale quadrants than anything that has to do with buckets, and you have enough experience to firmly decide that the reason for that is the cluster of nerve endings that exist at the base of a troll’s horns. In a non-repiteblock context, it’s the fast lane to triggering the submission reflex, if you’re strifing against a troll that’s beating you easily and you’re out of other options. In this context, it’s… still the submission reflex, but also really comforting and soothing and, and, nice, and, and, and—  
  
The world gets fuzzy around you (your last coherent thought is “holy fuck, where did she even learn to do that?!”) and you think you’re curled into Terezi’s side, but you’re not sure because everything is just so warm and you can’t fully process many facts other than that.  
  
There’s a part of you that panics, realizing that if you slip further into this state, she could kill you if she wanted, she could slit your neck and you wouldn’t be able to lift a finger while you bled out. But her touch, the sound of her voice, soft and gentle—it stops the state of relaxation from letting you go, keeps you on the edge between wariness and unconditional trust.  
  
The sensation builds, gut-roiling terror battling the desire to let yourself be soothed and carried away, until your instincts are so tangled and confused that you feel as if you’re about to burst out from your skin. And then, through the fugue of mixed sensations, you hear her voice, clearer than before although still only in garbled pieces, whispered into your ear: “ _Vriska—okay—safe—it’s okay—Vriska, I_ forgive _you—_ ”  
  
That’s all it takes for you to fall.  
  
  
  
  


Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and while Vriska sleeps it off, you spend an hour petting her hair absentmindedly and wondering if you really are the same Terezi that lied to the Condesce to protect her friends.  
  
You’ve typed up your recommendations for negotiating with Rose and Dave because you are a coward who can’t stomach telling the Condesce out loud, and you should have sent off the email the moment you finished the last sentence. You have not sent it off.  
  
A very large portion of your brainsponge is screaming at you that you are committing high treason and deserve to have your skin flayed off slowly. It’s becoming background noise at this point. You’ve gotten better at ignoring it, seeing as it flares up whenever you get snarky at Vriska and that’s practically every time you open your flap.  
  
Resisting the urge to begin frantically apologizing to your palemate/superior officer for minor decorum infractions is a strange process. You feel the discomfort rising in your throat, and you can push it back down with the rational side of you, but doing that is painful. Your vascular pump pulses in your pressure points, striking at your nerves, and the worst part is that you know that you’re not actually thwarting the programming they gave you. Not really, anyway.  
  
You’re not a subjugglator, but you don’t think it’s intended to force you to obey. The Condesce doesn’t want you to do what she tells you, she wants _you_ to advise _her_ on what to do, as long as it aligns with her goals for the empire. So, you’re allowed to make snappy comebacks at Vriska and to interrupt the Glorious Queen of All Universes in order to tell her how better to manage her campaigns, but every time you do, you get a physiological reminder of what they’ll do to you if you _really_ disobey.  
  
You’re sure that’s not the only thing they put in your pan.  
  
When you trolled Karkat to let him know you were alright, it hurt so badly you thought you would pass out. But you forced yourself not to reveal any outward signs of it, because Karkat did not grow to adulthood under the awful, tyrannical, cold reign of Her Imperious Condescension, and you didn’t want to ruin the idealism and innocence hidden below his protective layers of grumpiness and creative swearing. Instead of allowing yourself to cave, you pushed back against the instincts, back and back, until you hit… something.  
  
It wasn’t anything you could feel with your senses or describe with your vocabulary; if you had to, you’d say it was a dark knot at the center of your consciousness that sucked everything into it. You are afraid of what that might mean, what vital parts of your identity it is replacing.  
  
You’re hesitating over giving the Condesce your long, extended exposition on how to get Rose and Dave to cooperate, but you know, deep down, that there’s no choice to be made. You’re going to hand it over.  
  
It doesn’t have to do with the discomfort pulling apart your nerves at the thought of withholding it, you’re fairly sure. It’s that you are terrified— _terrified_ —of going back to that dark place they tortured you in.  
  
You’re certain that if Dave Strider was in your place, he would never betray you. But you are not Dave. You are selfish and a coward, and you will betray him instantly if it means the Condesce won’t find reason to put you back there.  
  
You hit send.  
  
When you’re done feeling as if you’re about to vomit from guilt, you gently disentangle yourself from the chilly, limp puddle of meat that is currently your moirail and head to the ablutions block. It’s ridiculously large and expensively furnished, with a small videogrub fixed to the wall across from the load gaper so that you can watch the imperial newsfeeds while you relieve yourself. There’s something faintly disturbing about that concept, so you disconnect the videogrub from the wall and hope it is never used. Then you slip off your clothes, allow the wardrobifier to take them, and mess with the confusing stainless-steel knobs on the ablutions trap until you get water that won’t freeze you to death.  
  
You make your shower quick and efficient. It’s when you’re stepping onto the floor mat and running an impossibly fluffy towel over your shoulder that you feel the ridges.  
  
You frown and sniff at the skin on your shoulder.  
  
You wish you hadn’t.  
  
It’s two curved slashes with a shorter dash connecting them. The Peixes hatchsign, the symbol of )-(er Imperious Condescension, carved into your skin. You’re no mediculler, but although it is a fully healed scar it seems like a wound that has been repeated over and over again in the same place.  
  
You run a frond over it a second time. It’s neatly symmetrical, as if whoever put it there practiced many times until it was absolutely perfect.  
  
Hesitantly, you check the other shoulder. There’s something there too: a scar in the shape of an M with a hook at the end. Vriska’s sign, carved into your skin.  
  
You sink to the floor, pillow your head in your limbs, and try to breathe normally. You feel like invisible insects are crawling over your skin and there’s no way to shoo them away, and the entirety of the Alternian Empire expects you to smile contently while the bugbeasts rip their way beneath your flesh.  
  
(You picture Vriska’s face contorted in horror upon seeing the scars and decide that she should probably never ever learn about this, considering the unhealthy levels of guilt she’s clearly been heaping upon herself ever since you went away.)  
  
When you’ve mastered your disgust and feelings of invasion—after all, they already rummaged around in your pan, what worse violations can they commit?—you have the wardrobifier spit out a clean uniform, wind your noose around your waist as usual, and go to deal with all the work you have stacked up.  
  
Before you can open even a single troop supply requisition form, trollian starts to blink bright fuchsia.  
  
\-- )(—ER IMP------ERIOUS COND----ESC-ENSCION [)(IC] began trolling galacticCalamity [GC] \--  
  
)(IC: now T)(ATS w)(y we pay t)(e clownfis)(is)(es so coddamn muc)(  
)(IC: auxiliary conc)(ditioning may be a glubbin pain in t)(e fins but it s)(ore does its job right  
)(IC: i like t)(is plan a w)(ole lot betta t)(an t)(at “just leave t)(em alone” bullfis)( ya gave me earlier  
)(IC: now listen up  
)(IC: first order of business for you and yo gillfriend is to visit lalonde  
)(IC: cuz serket will be a pretty ok admiral as s)(e is rig)(t now, probably more t)(an just ok conc)(sidering t)(e deviously ingenious s)(ip s)(e came up wit)( during )(er traynin  
)(IC: seariously it was fuckin amazing  
)(IC: s)(e started out as t)(is ras)( fool)(ardy lil eig)(t sweep old wit)( no real strategic sense and by t)(e end of it s)(e was doing strategy t)(at left )(er sc)(oolfeeders jaws practically dropping to t)(e seafloor  
)(IC: but to be )(onest  
)(IC: t)(eres nofin quite like using a s)(ipload of luck t)(at you stole from your enemies to deliver a resounding assw)(oopin to t)(ose w)(o dare defy t)(e mig)(t of t)(e glorayous alternian empire  
)(IC: so im reel eager for )(er to get )(er anemonemories back asap  
GC: 1 W1LL 4TT3MPT TO 4CCOMPL1SH TH4T GO4L TO TH3 B3ST OF MY 4B1L1TY  
)(IC: sea t)(ats w)(at im talkin aboat  
)(IC: OB-----EDI-ENC-E  
)(IC: its reel nice seain it from you two once in a fuckin w)(ile  
)(IC: so w)(atc)(a waitin for  
)(IC: your body tracker )(ere says you aint moved from serkets block  
  
So they implanted a tracker in you. Alright, you’ve dealt with that before, now it’s just two different organizations with access to your location at all times, not just Karkat and your friends. It’s basically the same, so there’s no point in getting freaked out about it. At least that’s what you tell yourself.  
  
GC: TH3 4DM1R4L 1S 1ND1SPOS3D 4T TH3 MOM3NT  
)(IC: 38O  
)(IC: you piled didnt ya  
You have no desire to share embarrassing personal details with your supreme ruler. In fact, if there were quantitative units to indicate desire to share embarrassing personal details, your current state would measure in the negatives.  
  
GC: SH3 1S R3ST1NG 4T TH3 MOM3NT  
  
There. That’s an utterly truthful statement that could imply any number of innocent or less innocent things.  
  
)(IC: i fuckin CALL--ED it  
  
Time to change the subject. Yesterday.  
  
GC: M4Y 1 4SK 1F YOU POSS3SS 4NY OF TH3 4B1L1T13S OF YOUR B3FOR4N S3LF  
)(IC: o)(  
)(IC: w)(ale  
)(IC: its a bit complicated  
)(IC: i alraydy )(ave a lot of cool as glub powers  
GC: SUCH 4S YOUR L1F3 3XT3ND1NG 4B1L1T13S  
)(IC: yep and i alwave t)(ink more powers is betta t)(an less powers  
)(IC: but my anemonemories of t)(e seas)(ion from fuckin nice sweet loving kind accepting sugary lameass planet are kinda sparse on actual life powers t)(at could be useful to me  
)(IC: i mean being a t)(ief of life means t)(at i can steal peoples lives and just cull em by t)(inking it  
)(IC: but cmon its not like its )(ard to kill people  
)(IC: culling fork  
)(IC: in my )(and  
)(IC: rig)(t )(ere  
)(IC: and at t)(e peak of my powers my beforan self )(ad t)(e capacity to cull w)(ole entire planets wit)(out muc)( effort and s)(ip  
)(IC: but i got t)(e same problem t)(ere  
)(IC: i can alraydy DO t)(at  
)(IC: millions of nuclear war)(eads  
)(IC: generals and armies and crap  
GC: OH  
)(IC: and speakin of culling t)(ings  
)(IC: i am SO GLUBBIN GLAD my beforan self was smart enoug)( to scratc)( t)(at annoying coddamn planet  
)(IC: like  
)(IC: i was pretty stupid as a kid in t)(is universe okay  
)(IC: but my beforus version was extra stupid  
)(IC: did NOT enjoy rememberin my wriggler self do stupid s)(ip for t)(ousands of fucking sweeps in fucking dreambubbles  
)(IC: but one t)(ing i was not stupid atrout  
)(IC: was scratc)(ing that fucking seas)(ion  
)(IC: t)(e signless was reel glubbin annoyin in t)(is timeline alrig)(t  
)(IC: i mean t)(e fucker just wont go AWAV----E  
)(IC: even now t)(at )(es been coddamn dead for a couple t)(ousand years  
)(IC: but at least i could just ----EX-ECUT-E )(im  
)(IC: except  
)(IC: not during the game i couldnt  
)(IC: i )(ad to stand t)(ere and LIST-EN to t)(e bass)(ole  
GC: 1 C4N UND3RST4ND YOUR PO1NT  
)(IC: aboat t)(e powers t)(ing or t)(e vantas t)(ing  
GC: BOTH  
)(IC: good  
)(IC: t)(ats w)(at i like to )(ear  
)(IC: anywave  
)(IC: i still got some questseaons atrout t)(e plan you drew out  
)(IC: speseafically this section  
)(IC: “ 4FT3R 4N 4GR33M3NT 1S R34CH3D 1T W1LL B3 3SP3C14LLY 1MPORT4NT TO PROV1D3 ROS3, D4V3, JOHN, 4ND J4D3 W1TH **D3F3NS1V3 T4SKS ONLY** 4ND NOT  TO PH4S3 1NTO OFF3NS1V3 M4N3UV3RS UNT1L 4T L34ST ON3 SW33P FROM NOW. 4T TH1S PO1NT, TH3Y W1LL NOT B3 PR1SON3RS, SL4V3S, OR 3V3N M3RC3N4RY SOLD13RS, BUT 3QU4L P4RTN3RS 1N 4N ONGO1NG N3GOT14T1ON. K33P 1N M1ND TH4T TH3Y H4V3 4 CONS1D3R4BL3 4MOUNT OF B4RG41N1NG POW3R DU3 TO TH31R C4P4B1L1TY FOR BLOW1NG UP YOUR SH1P, WH1CH M4K3S 1T 1MP3R4T1V3 TH4T YOU M4K3 TH31R L1V3S 4S COMFORT4BL3 4S POSS1BL3 4ND R3FR41N FROM PUSH1NG TH3M 1NTO 4NY 4CT1ON TH4T WOULD TR1GG3R TH31R MOR4L R3S3RV4T1ONS (MOR3 TH4N 4NY OTH3R P4RT OF TH1S PROPOSAL) 4ND R3SULT 1N (1) 4 D3CR34S3 1N TH3 3FF1C13NCY OF TH31R WORK (2) D4M4G3 TO 4NY FURTH3R N3GOT14T1ONS (3) OUTR1GHT HOST1L3 4CT1ON. ”  
)(IC: i sea your point  
)(IC: to a certain degree  
)(IC: but is there anything that wont trigger their morayeel reserwavetions  
GC: 1 4M SUR3 TH4T TH3Y W1LL B3 W1LL1NG TO 4SS1ST 1N TH3 D3STRUCT1ON OF OTH3R H4PL3SS 4L13N C1V1L1Z4T1ONS SUBJ3CT TO 4LT3RN14N CONQU3ST 1N 3XCH4NG3 FOR TH3 1MM3D14T3 4ND P3RM4N3NT W1THDR4W4L OF 4LL 4LT3RN14N FORC3S FROM TH3 T3RR4N SOL4R SYST3MS  
GC: SO TH4T 1S ON3 MOR4L CONS1D3R4T1ON TH3Y W1LL HOP3FULLY B3 W1LL1NG TO D1SR3G4RD  
GC: BUT TH3Y 4R3 1NT3NS3LY MOR4L 1ND1V1DU4LS  
GC: 1T W1LL B3 B3ST 1F TH3Y 4R3 D3D1C4T3D TO T4SKS TH3Y W1LL V13W 4S L1F3S4V1NG 1N TH3 LONG RUN  
)(IC: )(u)(  
)(IC: not gonna lie t)(ats weird as glub  
)(IC: )(umans sufferists t)(eyre all t)(e same  
)(IC: next questseation  
)(IC: t)(is bit rig)(t )(ere  
)(IC: “ NOT3S FOR FURTH3R N3GOT14T1ONS: W1THOUT MY G4M3 POW3RS 1 C4N NOT PR3D1CT TH3S3 B3YOND ORD1N4RY STR4T3G1C TH1NK1NG, N4TUR4LLY, BUT 1T 1S 4LMOST 1N3V1T4BL3 TH4T ROS3 L4LOND3 W1LL 1N1T14T3 COMPL3X M1NDG4M3S W1TH YOUR COND3SC3NS1ON TH3 MOM3NT H3R L1F3 C34S3S TO B3 3ND4NG3R3D. WH3N TH3S3 B3COM3 UNB34R4BL3 4ND 1T 1S CL34R TH4T YOU 4R3 LOS1NG, DO NOT 4TT3MPT TO THR34T3N H3R W1TH V1OL3NC3 1N 4N 4TT3MPT TO G41N TH3 UPPER H4ND. TH1S WOULD R3SULT 1N UTT3R D3STRUCT1ON. ”  
)(IC: s)(es coddamn trapped on t)(is fuckin s)(ip and s)(ell DO W)(AT I FUCKING T—ELL )(-ER TO DO unless s)(e wants to end up D———EAD in a temporary or heroic sort of wave  
)(IC: t)(e fuck kind of mind games will s)(e be initiatin  
GC: TH3 K1ND TH4T ONLY SH3 W1LL W1N  
)(IC: you seem reel s)(ore of t)(at  
GC: Y3S  
)(IC: cmon go for t)(e bait im lookin for swim kind of explanation )(ere  
GC: DO YOU H4V3 4NY R3COLL3CT1ON OF1NT3R4CT1NG W1TH H3R 1N 4 DR34MBUBBL3 OF 4NY SORT  
)(IC: once or twice  
GC: D1D SH3 3V3R “PSYCHO4N4LYZ3” YOUR OTH3R S3LF  
)(IC: no  
GC: SOM3TH1NG TO LOOK FORW4RD TO TH3N  
)(IC: t)(e fuck t)(ats supposed to mean beac)(  
GC: 1 4M SUR3  
GC: NO  
GC: 1 4M  
GC: SHOR3  
GC: YOU 4R3 C4P4BL3 OF H4NDL1NG 1T  
)(IC: do i reely need to repeat mys)(elf  
)(IC: w)(at is t)(at supposed to mean  
GC: ONLY TH4T D3LV1NG FURTH3R 1NTO TH3 TOP1C WOULD B3 COUNT3RPRODUCT1V3 4ND COMPROM1S3 TH3 3ND GO4LS OF TH1S 3ND34VOUR  
  
Alright, so laughing at the most powerful being in the galaxy from the privacy of your own block may not do much for your chucklevoodoo-programmed nerves, but it sure as hell is a lot of fun.  
  
You may never forgive yourself for selling the human kids out, but you also can’t wait for Rose to get in diplomatic gear. The best part of being skilled at mindgames is the immense fun derived from watching another skilled individual wreck someone’s (mental/emotional) shit while you watch from the sidelines. And giggle.  
  
Vriska is stirring next to you. She makes a noise sort of like “wuhh?” and starts patting the area around her.  
  
“Over here, nerd,” you say loudly.  
  
She goes “eep!” and literally jumps up—she goes from horizontal to fully vertical in less than two seconds. Then she stops looking around in panic, realizes where she is, and makes a rude gesture at you.  
  
“You really need to brush your hair,” you tell her.  
  
“Or you could brush it for me,” she says hopefully.  
  
“Miss Blueberry, we _just_ piled.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“It seems that the decadent military-royalty lifestyle is suiting you.”  
  
“Fuck yes. All the decadence. Aaaallll of it.”  
  
She continues to look eagerly in your direction for the next minute. You throw a scalemate at her head. She lets it bounce off without blinking. “Go brush your hair, seriously. It looks like generations of squeakbeasts have lived long, fulfilling lives in that mess.”  
  
She mumbles something you can’t hear, probably something insulting about your personal qualities, and trudges off to the ablutions block. You crack your appendage joint knobbles and open up some paperwork.  
  
Ten minutes later, Vriska comes back to sit next to you, rest her chin on your shoulder, and provide commentary without doing anything useful whatsoever. One hour later, you’ve gotten through an impressive amount of paperwork considering the commentary. Two hours later, you troll Sollux and derive a significant amount of amusement from drawing him into a conversation about Vriska without telling him that Vriska is reading all his answers, because you are a total wastechute. When you let Vriska reach over and type, he repeatedly confirms your sought-for personal title of “total wa2techute” and suggests a number of other amusing epithets with which to refer to yourself.  
  
Three hours later, the alarm sounds.  
  
PROTOCOL FUCHSIA, reads the warning message on all your devices. Below it is a schematic of the ship with a flashing dot over the throne block.  
  
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” says Vriska.  
  
You swallow. “Read about it in the shipwide emergency protocol manual. It’s sent out to the highest ranking officer on the Battleship Condescension in the event that the empress is in mortal danger and her guards are compromised.”  
  
You run.  
  
The moment you and Vriska enter the elevator and it scans you for ID, the miniscreen flashes PROTOCOL FUCHSIA and hurtles to its destination at a frightening speed. You take the time to reflect that this entire scene is something out of a poorly-made Troll James Bond movie.  
  
A trail of bodies lies from where you stand to the entrance to the empress’s conference block on the opposite side of her gold-dazzled throne. One of the guards looks like his eyes have been stabbed out, another is slashed into halves, and another has her regulation sword buried to the hilt in her stomach.  
  
As you race to catch up with Vriska—damn, your moirail is fast—you almost knock into her back when she stops short at the door to the conference block. You wish you could feel surprised at what you find.  
  
Her Imperious Condescension vaults away just as the long table explodes into a smoking ruin. Her smile is nasty; her culling fork gleams in her claws. Rose Lalonde hovers twenty feet in the air, two long, thin objects in her hands pointed at the empress.  
  
Jade Harley floats by her side, twin pistols pointed at you and Vriska. The last time you saw Jade was in another universe, and you remember her as chubby, smiling, and pretty, but now she looks frightfully thin and her eyes are filled with bitterness. She has two pistols trained at you and Vriska, and you freeze. With that expression, you don’t doubt she’s ready to shoot.  
  
You hear the _fzzt_ of a blaster powering up right next to your ear. Vriska has officer-caliber blasterkind pointed right back.  
  
If Vriska kills her, she will die defending her friends—it will be heroic. If she kills Vriska, you’re terrified it will be just.  
  
“Don’t shoot— _either_ of you,” you say. Jade ignores you, but you can smell the _are you crazy?!!_ coming off Vriska even though she doesn't move.  
  
“A little kelp over here?” says the empress. “Cause I’m gettin’ reel close to just blasting this beach through the wall.” In the time you spent staring at Vriska and Jade’s standoff, a panel of heavy guns have emerged from the wall and are pointed at Rose, whose needles are crackling with white energy.  
  
“ _You will pay for what you’ve done to my planet_ ,” growls Rose.  
  
“Wow, you’re so glubbing dramatic,” says the Condesce. “It’s practically heroic. Permadeath heroic, even.”  
  
You are aware that this is the wrong time to have this argument, but you can’t help yourself. “Your condescension, did you follow _any_ of my recommendations?”  
  
“Not my fault these bassholes showed up before I got time to do any negotiating,” she retorts.  
  
You purse your lips and (because your instincts are screaming at you to have respect for your ruler) carefully don’t answer that. Then you clear your throat and announce as loudly and clearly as possible, “Miss Lavender Soap, her death will trigger the doom of the entirety of trollkind in the Vast Glub. That includes Kanaya.”  
  
This is untrue, since Feferi is alive somewhere, but Rose doesn’t know that. You smell her uncertainty.  
  
The empress crosses her arms. “Ya know, before you decided to spacey-thing your way into my piersonal conference room I was aboat to make a deal in relation to your lil planet, but if you’re not finterested in hearing it I can just put you back into your cells. Or mebbe just cull you. Yeah, that sounds like more fun.”  
  
“We’re not interested in anything you have to say,” croaks a voice from the corner, followed by a hissed “Shh!!”  
  
You whirl around. John Egbert, clad in his disgustingly bright blue outfit, is supporting Dave, who has an imperial regulation sword in one hand and is clutching his chest with the other. There are three dark red dots on his thorax, as if he was stabbed with a 2x3dent. There’s a greenish glow around John, who is doing something furtively with his hands. You sniff suspiciously, but your nose isn’t lying to you—John is _healing_ him.  
  
That’s not a Breath power. You want to ask what the hell is going on, but John speaks first. “You said a deal. What kind of deal are you talking about?”  
  
“John—” starts Rose.  
  
“I don’t care about trolls,” says John. “I hope they all die painfully for what they did. But if there’s a way to help Earth, then I’m in.”  
  
“Good,” you say, rubbing your palms together. “Because I think we can come up with a mutually beneficial solution. Vriska, Jade, put those guns down, Rose, put away your frightening needlelike strifekind, and your magnificent cruelty, please get rid of the disturbingly large display of long-range weaponry. We have some talking to do.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tHAT FUCKING PROPAGANDA GUY 
> 
> jk i love him he literally only exists to annoy the main characters
> 
> also yeah next chapter is all beta kids backstory, which is (a) really fun because cool things and worldbuilding and i explain some things about this au and why john has weird powers and stuff (b) probably really evil to at least one person out there who is like "whats gonna happen next tho" and im just like "WELP YOU GOTTA WAIT ANOTHER WEEK"


	8. did he smile his work to see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaAAAaaaAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaa
> 
> i cant believe i skipped two update weeks. it wasnt intentional -- i was traveling to the other side of the US and i assumed i could upload chapters without difficulty just like normal, but it turned out i didnt get any wifi, and, well. i was going to wait until this sunday to post this chapter, but i figured it had waited long enough. hopefully nothing will go wrong next week, ugh
> 
> edit 6/26: something went wrong!!!!!!! hooray!!!!!!!!!!!! will update asap, or if the problem isnt fixed by wednesday, ill just post next sun.
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: one use of the p-ssy slur (from Bro), alcoholism, abandonment, discussions of abuse, graphic violence, heavy discussion of death, in general a lot of bad things happening to children :(

 

**(years in the past, but not many)**

  
  
Your name is Rose Lalonde, you are ten years old, and if you’re not mistaken it seems that the world is ending. You always harbored the vague hope that the end of the world would occur via the summoning or forceful entrance of some Lovecraftian horror into the mortal realm, but apparently an alien invasion will have to do.  
  
Right now, you’re watching the president of the United States deliver a nationwide broadcast urging citizens to remain calm and evacuate to more rural areas, as the invasion has so far been focused on densely populated locales. Military law is being enforced. As the broadcast goes on, you become more and more convinced that no one in the US government has any idea what they’re doing. A new headline scrolls past: RED EXTRATERRESTRIAL WARSHIPS DECIMATE CHICAGO.  
  
“They’re enjoying it,” says a voice behind you.  
  
You turn, raising a brow in what you hope is an elegant and composed manner. Your hands are clenched on the couch’s armrests.  
  
Mom doesn’t have any slur in her voice, even though she was drinking this morning, and she’s wearing an expression you can’t decipher. You’re good at figuring out expressions. In this household, it’s a survival requirement.  
  
“They’re enjoying it,” she repeats, not looking at you or at the TV, just staring into space. “They could wipe us out with nuclear weapons like they used on Dubai, but they’ve switched to those other things.”  
  
She’s talking about the awful white beams, the ones that are currently tearing through Chicago and half a dozen other metropolitan centers across the globe, that incinerate everything in their path and incite citywide firestorms with a single blast. She says, “They’re dragging it out because they know we can’t beat ‘em, and they’re having fun watching us squirm.”  
  
“They said their goal was enslavement, and if humanity cooperated the death would be kept to a minimum.” You want to say it calmly and logically, but your voice trembles. Why does your voice always have to give you away? This is why you like pesterchum.  
  
“Yeah, and didn’t that sound like a canned message? Bet they give it to all the civilizations they conquer.” She turns around and heads back down the hallway. “We leave in an hour.”  
  
“To where?” you call after her.  
  
“Safe house in the country,” she calls back, like she’s stating which grocery store she’s going to visit.  
  
When she leaves, you look back at the TV. The CNN news anchors are already discussing the possibility that the end of the world is somehow the result of The Gays (tm). You turn it off and pull out your computer.  
  
\--  tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--  
  
TT: How has the certain destruction of human civilization been treating you?   
  
Dave lives in a city. Where the invasion is happening.  
  
TG: good  
TG: excellent in fact  
TG: so goddamn wonderful that were throwing a party to celebrate it  
TG: the main funtime activities at this party will be as follows  
TG: running desperately from aliens  
TG: stocking up on heavy guns  
TG: pleading with a deaf and uncaring god while tears stream down our cheeks  
TT: And is the designated location for this party somewhere that is not an urban area?  
TG: yeah i suggested that  
TG: bro kind of disagreed  
TT: Staying where you are would be suicide.  
TG: yeah  
TG: pretty much  
TG: theres a basement in my apartment complex  
TG: im there right now  
TG: i dont know where bro is  
TG: he just disappeared  
TT: You need to leave.  
TT: My mother and I are heading for a safe house in the country.  
TT: Come with us.  
  
It’s a pointless offer. He lives on the other side of the country, there’s no way you could meet. The ships have already made it to Chicago; they’ll get to the southern United States quickly enough. And very, very few people have made it out of those firestorms alive.  
  
TG: shit  
TG: i  
TG: ill text you back  
TT: Dave?  
  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] stopped pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] \--  
  
TT: Please don’t go.  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] is offline! \--  
TT: Dave, please  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] is offline! \--  
TT: Don't leave me here  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] is offline! \--  
  
Twenty-four hours later, you are in a car on the way to a safe house in an undisclosed rural location. You keep pestering Dave, but he doesn’t answer. You think Jade and John both safe, since you doubt the aliens would bother with Jade’s island and John says he and his father have evacuated to as safe as any place can be in this near-dead world. You talk to them, and you’re desperately glad that they are not hurt or worse, but the moment you enter a conversation you find yourself searching for an excuse to leave it.    
  
A glimpse at the TV, or even just out the window, is a glimpse at crumbling facades. That illusion of safety and permanence that the American white middle class loves so much? It’s evaporating under the harsh red-streaked light. It’s as if the entirety of the globe is realizing what you think through every. Single. Day.  
  
The problem with Jade and John is their lives are so _nice_. Their guardians are weird, sure, but other than a few quirks they’re shining examples of well-adjusted, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fifth graders. When you say _I’m hungry_ , they ask you _why?_ and then you tell them _I can’t go to the kitchen because my mother’s there and she’s been drunk for three days_ , and their responses are so well-meaningly clueless that it hurts to read.  
  
They have no facades. They don’t understand this ending world.  
  
Dave, on the other hand, is just like you.  
  
Two hours after you leave the city limits, Mom gets a call. Her safe house has been overrun by hulking, metallic creatures with flesh-rending pincers and a zodiac sign on their chests. The only survivor is the man on the other end of the phone call, and halfway through the panicked conversation, he is suddenly cut off.  
  
The roads are clogged with evacuees, but Mom maneuvers her way to the side of the road and pulls out a map. “Phones’ll be useless soon, when the providers get bombed,” she says. “Gotta get used to reading these things.”  
  
You keep the car radio on, and you hear the announcer saying that Houston is under attack. You use the remainder of your phone battery to pester Dave, but there is still no response.  
  
In the next day, all internet connection and any other wireless communication breaks down. It’s not clear whether it’s intentional interference from the invaders or a product of massive infrastructure destruction.  
  
The US military can be seen every now and then, but it’s no more an organized institution than another gang. (The Pentagon was rubble the first hour the aliens showed up.)  
  
You join a group of refugees living in the outskirts of a small town, where you stay for the next month.  
  
Once most major cities have been destroyed, the drones begin hunting down the survivors. They get close, and your settlement picks up and moves. You’re too small to do most work that needs to be done, but you carry bottles of water for the others and stay out of the adults’ way.  
  
One day, the drones surprise you.  
  
The alarm doesn’t sound in time to save everyone, but when it does, Mom tells you that she’ll hold them off while you run. It’s like the scene in every novel you’ve ever read, and you know what will happen.  
  
Years later you will think: _I should have told her I loved her_. You will think: _I should have found my powers sooner, and tore those drones to pieces._  
  
But this is not later, and you are only ten years old, and you say nothing.  
  
She dies for you, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s her last test, the ultimate winning move in her endless mind game—now you’re stuck living on, with no friends, no family, agonizing over your inability to repay her final selfless gesture. A therapist would love it. At least, they’d love it if most of them were not dead, like a large portion of the world’s population.  
  
When you stop hearing the shots and the mechanical whirr of the drones goes silent, you immediately think of running. But a weight drags at your legs, and you _have to know._  
  
When you creep back inside, it doesn’t take much investigative talent to conclude what happened from looking at Mom’s corpse and the remains of the drones.  
  
As it turns out, Mom knew how to operate a submachine gun. You don’t know why she withheld this fact from you. You’re also not sure how she knew precisely where to shoot so that it would decimate the already-weakened drones, or how her aim was so perfect given her intoxicated state. There’s surprisingly little blood for how violent her death was—it’s almost like she’s just passed out on the floor like she used to every weekend.  
  
You should go. The drones could have sent back a distress call, more could be coming. Instead you walk closer.  
  
You lift up a disconnected pincer. It’s heavy and cold and your stick-thin arms tremble to heft it, but when you get a look at the squirming biowires twisting aimlessly from the severed limb…  
  
You are ten years old, you are stranded in the middle of nowhere, you are surrounded by dead bodies, you haven’t eaten in over a day, and despite having never taken apart an electronic contrivance in your life, you look at the still-twitching drone carcasses and you know exactly what to do.  
  
And then there’s a twisting in your gut, and you stumble to the door to vomit, because that used to be your mother and she is dead and you don’t know what to do.  
  
It’s a beautiful, sunny day. Birdsong, light filtering through trees to the forest floor, the whole shebang. You’re angry—Mom is dead, why are there birds singing? It’s with that anger held tight in the core of your stomach that you tuck the pincer under an arm and drag the rest of the drone outside.  
  
The whole day passes, with you resting every now and then, until you start losing light and you give up. Your mind is operating outside of your usual consciousness—it’s as if someone else has taken up residence in your skull and is directing your actions from your hindbrain while the old Rose Lalonde watches from your frontal lobe. Schematics keep unfolding in front of your eyes, one after the other, so fast you can’t properly analyze them, and you are so involved in what you are making that almost forget to shove the settlement’s dwindling food stores into a bulging backpack and sling it over your shoulder.  
  
You’re just a kid, and you’re exhausted by the time the sun sets and you tuck yourself into the roots of a large tree to sleep, rubbing your hands over your arms and shivering in the cold. The knowledge of how alone you are covers you like a blanket, numbing your skin, holding you tight as you fall into sleep.  
  
When you wake up, the angry red sunrise glares through the trees. You remember what happened, and an arrow of awful, wrenching sorrow tears through you. You allow it pass through and then you move on from it with a resigned weariness that resonates through your bones, and for a fleeting moment you feel as if you’ve done it before. In that moment, you are as ancient as the space between the stars, and your head _hurts_ because you know suddenly that you are too young, too inexperienced, too weak to grasp what your memories want you to know.  
  
And then it passes. And you get up.  
  
It is here that you learn the first lesson of death: keep going.  
  
There’s a stream nearby, so you use the materials from the pack you salvaged to boil some water clean. You drink what you get, and then you chew on some bread that isn’t stale yet. And then you get to work.  
  
Whatever it is that was controlling your brain takes over. By the time the sun sets, your throat is dry, your limbs ache from lifting and holding things in place, and you feel like someone is poking knitting needles into your eyes.  
  
In front of you is a weapon. It doesn’t look like any of the guns the other adults at the settlement has, and it doesn’t even look like something out of the sci-fi novel you used to read. It’s a long cylinder with a hatch to load ammunition, a depressible section on one end to serve as a trigger, and an open end for the ammunition to be fired from. You know how it works, and you could recite precisely the steps you went through to make it from the salvaged drone parts, but you don’t know how you know that.  
  
You shuffle some items around, intending to eat something, but you fall asleep before you can. An hour later, your first ever vision comes to you in strokes of searing light. You jerk awake.  
  
_The drones are coming, the drones are_ coming—  
  
You grab everything you can and start running, but you haven’t eaten and your legs wobble from working nonstop, and you collapse barely a mile away. You’re not sure of the time frame in your vision, only that it felt so awfully real that it couldn’t possibly be a mere dream, but now you’re second-guessing yourself. It’s just a few scattered images, and it makes sense that you would have nightmares.  
  
“I’m just overreacting,” you mutter desperately. “This cannot possibly be real. It can’t be—”  
  
When you hear the dull mechanical buzz in the distance you know you are not overreacting.  
  
_Keep going._ You force your muscles to carry you into a run. The weapon, cold and sleek and foreign and familiar, is clenched in your right hand. You want to collapse, but you refuse to allow yourself that cowardice.  
  
_Keep going. Keep going._  
  
They’re faster. How could they not be, with their wings so razor-edged, so hummingbird-fast. Suddenly you remember that you are only ten years old, and you are alone, and they have ways to seek out body heat.  
  
_Why are you running?_ asks a voice in your head; only it sounds just like every other one of your thoughts, so you wonder if you are imagining its foreignness. You bite your lip, tears welling up in your eyes. “I’ll die anyways,” you gasp to yourself.  
  
This time the voice still sounds like you, but there’s a second timbre beneath it—deeper, older. _I only meant that_ they _should be running from_ you.  
  
You look down at the weapon.  
  
When the drones arrive, you are ready.  
  
You learn the second lesson of death: it, too, can be mastered.

 

 

 

 

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirteen years old, and it’s been three years since the world ended. You don’t know where any of your old friends are, and you’re pretty sure they’re dead—you haven’t chatted with them since you were ten, with the whole “internet no longer exists” thing and all. You also have no clue where Bro is. But, well. You figure you should be glad.  
  
At least that’s what the voice tells you, and it’s hard to argue with someone that knows everything you’re gonna say because they live inside your head.  
  
Right now you’re digging through a pile of rubble. Your hands and clothes are covered in cement dust and your whole body aches from walking and lifting heavy things all day and you haven’t eaten—you’re just a weak, useless kid, and on top of that you didn’t bring enough back to the compound yesterday, so your food and water rations got cut. But you can handle those things, you handled worse with Bro in the house. What gets to you is the stench of rotting, burnt flesh that’s everywhere in the cities. It makes you want to throw up, but you don’t let it show on your face. You were raised better than that.  
  
_Uhhh, you were raised preeeeetty shittily,_ the voice in your head reminds you. _Like utter shit city childrearing was going down there. I mean, like… dude. There’s no one around for at least a mile. It’s you and the raccoons, buddy, and I’m like 93% sure they don’t care about your super stoic manly-man manliest-ness…ess. Is that even a word?_  
  
Better question: why can’t you have _normal_ crazy person voices? Because this one doesn’t even tell you to murder your friends or whatever ordinary hallucinations tell people to do. It mostly just rambles on about people that don’t exist, “Dirk” and “Jane” and “Jake” and how they’re somehow connected to Rose and John and Jade, and talks about weird made-up things like the alien empress being the CEO of an evil baked goods conglomerate and “Void powers” and how “the timelines” are tangled and shattered and now time travel is impossible. It worries about you too, wishes you had more to eat and urges you to be careful on scavenging missions like this one in case a drone shows up.  
  
You sweep your hair out of your eyes, get a grip on what looks like the handle to a hardware tool of some kind stuck underneath the collapsed cement, and pull with all your might. Since you currently possess the muscle tone and body mass of a stick insect with a Weight Watchers subscription, that’s not a whole lot.  
  
_I don’t think it’s a real word,_ your voice muses. _Where’s Dirk when you need him? He probably knows all the words that have to do with being a super he-man manly guy._  
  
You lose your grip on the handle, stumble backwards, trip, and fall onto your ass. Great. Totally living up to the Strider name.  
  
_Aw, kid, that ain’t your fault! It’s not like you’ve got much to eat or anything. Man, and I thought MY post-apocalyptic Earth scenario was bad. Hey, at least there aren’t any meteors involved. Or video games that want to kill you._  
  
You go to turn back to where you came, but then something catches your eye. You squint at it: a dark, shiny piece of plastic dangling from a twisted metal rod.  
  
_I mean this reality still has an alien empress that wants to kill you. That’s cool. Or, not cool. Really not cool. Super duper extreme amounts of not cool with a drizzle of fuck this and a cherry on top. But at least we have something in common, right?_  
  
You jump up and snag the object. It’s miraculously intact, with only a few scratches on the left lens and a tiny melted bit on the right. The Ray-Ban logo on the rim is perfectly clear.  
  
You stare at the aviator shades in wonder—you lost the shades Bro gave you the day the invasion hit Houston, and you haven’t worn sunglasses since. It’s the kind of luxury that only important people get to have, like the guy who runs your compound got to wear the nice winter jacket you scavenged a few months back because he has the most guns.  
  
_Huh,_ says the voice wistfully. _I bet if you put it on you’d look just like in the photoshoots. Dirky got soooo excited over anything that had a photo of the other you in it, you have no idea._  
  
“Find anything good?” comes a shout from behind you. Quickly you stuff the shades into your shirt and whirl around, sticking your hands in your pockets.

It’s Michael. He’s trying to grow out his facial hair with limited success, so you’ve started calling him Almost-Mustache Mike.  
  
You go on scavenging missions with two other kids, Michael and Enrique, who are a few years older than you. The compound can’t feed everyone, so you’re assigned to venturing into the city for food and spare parts. It’s dangerous work, since the cities are crawling with drones, but someone has to do it, and you three are expendable.

“Nah,” you say casually. “This neighborhood is picked clean.”  
  
Almost-Mustache Mike nods. His belt is full of bits and pieces: a few electrical spare parts, an apple that doesn’t look too bad to eat. It’s not much, but considering the big fat zero you’ve come up with in the last hour, he’ll probably get the biggest food ration tonight. “We should head back, it’s gonna be nighttime soon. Drones’ll be all over this place the moment the sun sets.”  
  
You search for a distracting response. “I heard it’s not just drones anymore. There’s a new kind of alien. Smarter and more human-like.”  
  
“Yeah, I heard that too!” There’s the crunch of shoes on gravel and Enrique emerges from behind a building. “They’ve got horns in all different shapes, colored in orange and red rings. The rest of them is gray and black, though, and they’ve got claws and they’re really strong.”  
  
You don’t have any stupid nicknames for Enrique because he’s just too nice. When he first got here he would even give part of his food to you when you didn’t get as much, before he wised up and realized he couldn’t afford to give away his rations. There was also a girl that used to come with you, a twelve-year-old, but she had a chronic problem with her ankle and couldn’t run fast enough when the drones showed up. She didn’t make it.  
  
But that’s the whole point—kids like you would end up dying anyways, but at least this way you can do something at least a little useful before you kick the bucket.  
  
Almost-Mustache Mike scoffs. “That’s just a rumor.”  
  
“It’s not! I heard that from a trader who’s been to the east coast,” Enrique insists. “You know people are uprooting and moving over there? Apparently it’s not so bad. Apparently they have computers and running water and cars and stuff and they’ve started rebuilding cities.”  
  
“Fucking—not with this shit again.” Almost-Mustache Mike kicks at Enrique’s legs, making him fall into a pile of rubble, and then starts sauntering back in the direction of the compound. You follow quickly.  
  
Enrique pushes himself up, limping a little. “It’s true,” he mutters. “The traders from the east keep coming back richer and richer, and they say there’s some teenage girl who’s running things over there. She’s got all this, like, crazy robotics knowledge and she’s making these weird futuristic weapons that can fight against the drones, and when one guy got all these guns and tried to take over the Society so he could stop giving food to the sick and the elderly and only give it to the fighters, she reached into his chest and took out this shiny glowing thing and _crushed it_ , and then he _died._ And now no one human challenges her authority, and the invaders are sending the new aliens to Earth. To fight her and her followers.”  
  
“For the last goddamn time, the Society of the Crossed Needles _isn’t real_. It’s just a thing people made up because they’re scared and want to believe that some—”  
  
Behind you, there’s a sound like metal screeching against metal. The three of you turn to face it as slow and hypnotized like characters in a goddamn B movie.  
  
The high-pitched buzzing follows the two drones as they sweep toward you. You start running. They’ve gotten faster since the first invasion: the buzzing speeds up and they blur forward so that one of them is in front of you and the other one blocks your retreat.  
  
They fire. Bursts of searing red light appear, three in quick succession—first Almost-Mustache Mike falls, upper half detaching at the waist and tumbling onto the asphalt. Then Enrique is caught and tries to twist away, but the beam catches his side and he’s dead. His body crumples silently, a gaping hole in his torso.  
  
Then the third burst aims toward you, and only your flashstepping saves you. Your dash to the side confuses them, so you run down an alley. You dodge scorched cement and craters from past attacks, flashstep into an empty husk of a department store, hurtle toward the exit.  
  
Their shots come closer and closer to your flesh. You smash into the door with the defunct exit sign above it, but it won’t budge. You batter against it with your weak arms, slam against the lock, but the doorframe is too twisted. “ _Fuck!_ ”  
  
You spin around, putting your back to the door, but there’s no other way out. A crash shakes the ruined building and the first drone smashes through the wall.  
  
The red glow of its sensors flares brighter as they lock on to you. The same color as your eyes. There’s such a wrongness about the feeling of helplessness, which is odd, because you’ve been helpless your whole life.  
  
The voice in your head is screaming.  
  
The red light flashes, and in the same moment that you feel it turn your ribs and flesh and lungs into vapor, _something else_ takes hold of your muscles and makes your hands reach out.  
  
Your hands clench into fists and the drone implodes into a darkness veined in purple glow.  
  
Where it used to be—nothing. No trace that a drone ever existed, only a flickering corona, like light being sucked into a black hole. That’s when death swarms over you.

 

 

 

 

Your name is Dave Strider, and the total lack of pain is kind of surprising since you’re 76% sure you just died.  
  
You squint up at the darkening sky visible through the jagged hole in the ceiling. You probably shouldn’t be in this building, you think dizzily, since it looks like it could collapse at any time.  
  
This seems very little like Heaven or Hell and a lot like the burnt-out department store you got lasered in. You’re floating in a painless bliss that probably wouldn’t happen in Hell, and if this is Heaven then apparently a palace of angelic miracles can’t fix its own roof. You’re also not hungry at all. That hasn’t happened since Houston went up in flames.  
  
Maybe you should try and sit up.  
  
You do that with surprising ease. You frown and take a look at your arms. Have you regained some of the muscles you’ve lost over the last few months?  
  
And speaking of your body, why are you wearing red clothes with a gear symbol and a cool cape thingy? And why does it fit you perfectly? You look around you and see that the only article of your old clothing is the pair of nearly-intact shades you found in the wreckage.  
  
You pick them up. They’re not nearly intact anymore. They’re spotless and un-cracked and they look brand new.  
  
So you put them on.  
  
_Yeah, you totally look like the photoshoots,_ says the voice in your head. _I mean in our universe you were an adult and weren’t wearing a godtier outfit or anything, but the sunglasses? Super similar._  
  
Apparently dying has not made you any less crazy. Go figure.  
  
_Also, we’ve got to talk about what you did to that drone, even if you still don't really think I'm real, because, uh, I was going to do the voidey thing and Rogue-teleport us out of there, and I didn’t even think it was going to work, it was all just instinct._ The voice laughs nervously. _And I never actually vanished any enemies during the Game? Since being a Rogue is about, like, stealing from your aspect or whatever? All I did was be super duper sneaky and try to make things from nothing. So this is pretty weird?_  
  
You pretend the voice is innocuous elevator music and walk outside, pausing to see if the second drone is anywhere nearby. But you can’t hear the telltale buzzing, so you figure it’s probably okay.  
  
The voice keeps rambling on. _I gotta say, every instinct I’ve got is saying that’s what would happen if a Knight used Void powers, and my instincts have been pretty bomb ever since I woke up as your personal RoLal 2.0, mind-ghost version, and all that, but I’m not exactly an expert._  
  
You’re halfway to shouting at your imaginary voice to shut up, but then—  
  
—you see the mangled flesh that used to be Enrique and Michael.  
  
It’s not a pleasant sight. When you’re done vomiting, you take a moment to lean against a wall and berate yourself. You’ve seen bodies before, you should be used to it, you shouldn’t be breaking down like this. Bro’s voice echoes in your head, telling you to get up and stop being a pussy.  
  
_That’s stupid,_ says the other, less rational voice in your head. It sounds angry. _You knew them and now they’re dead, that’s worth getting upset over! The things he told you are WRONG._  
  
You’re never sure if you should believe the voice or not. It seems like it has some good points, but it’s also a voice in your head.  
  
_Ugh, I can’t believe that piece of microwaved shit is an alternate universe version of Dirk. The worst thing Dirk’s ever done is be frustratingly un-empathetic and non-communicative about his relationship feelings and stuff._  
  
You start the long walk back to the compound. The voice in your head keeps talking, and you get the feeling it’s trying to keep you company more than anything else. Of course, it would be a lot more reassuring if it didn’t keep babbling meaningless nonsense. But you guess you appreciate the effort.  
  
Then again…  
  
What you did to that drone is not normal. Coming back to life in a strange outfit without a scratch on you is not normal.  
  
The voice goes abruptly silent. You walk slower, stuff your hands into your pockets the way you do when you’re nervous, and murmur, “Uh, voice in my head? You there?”  
  
_Yeah?_  
  
“What’s going on?” You try not to reflect on how you’re walking alone at nighttime through a highly dangerous burned-out city, weaponless and talking to yourself.  
  
_Le siiiiiign! It’s a long story. I guess I’ll start at the beginning…_

 

 

 

 

You are Rose Lalonde and you are thirteen and a half years old. And you are shocked, because it seems as if this alien thinks it can _defeat_ you.  
  
Its black uniform is trimmed in green and it’s got a rifle-like weapon that fires blasts almost faster than you can see them. You don’t understand why it’s so confident: by now the invading empire must know what you can do, if they’re sending out people specifically to hunt you down, and you’ve strategically separated its raiding party so that you can pick them off one by one. This is the only one left.  
  
You, too, know what it is like to be the only one left.  
  
A shot shears off a length of your hair as you leap into flight just in time. You deflect a second shot with a needle and fire a burst of light back in your attacker’s direction. It catches it in the knee, and you scowl. You missed.  
  
Still, it’s effective enough. The alien falls to the ground, and your next shot goes through the unprotected gap in its chitin on the neck.  
  
Dark green blood spurts over its clothes, and you look at the color and something wrenches inside of you. _Not that color, never that color_ , you think, and stagger backward, a foreign ache tugging at your stomach.  
  
_You okay?_ asks your voice.  
  
The moment passes. You shake your head and pull yourself upright, wondering what came over you. It’s not as if you haven’t made kills before, and of the newer kind of alien as well as the drones. "I’m fine _,"_ you say aloud, and prepare to return to the rest of your patrol.  
  
It’s several hours before the voice speaks again—night has fallen, you’re back at the camp and about to go to sleep. Instead you lie on your back and stare blankly upward. “I apologize, I was distracted,” you murmur almost inaudibly.  
  
_I asked if you were still sure that you didn’t want to hear about my—our—past._  
  
You draw in a breath.  
  
Shortly after you became aware of the foreign presence in your mind, your voice told you his name was Dirk and that your strange mechanical knowledge was from him. He was the one who urged you to listen to your visions, to pick up a pair of innocuous knitting needles salvaged from the ruins of a nearby town and let loose the burning light that boiled under your skin.  
  
And half a year ago, when another human fighter tried to put a bullet through your head, he was the one who acted while you were frozen in shock and betrayal. He’d taken control, made you reach forward with your hands and pull his soul from his body.  
  
(You had always thought that it would be harder to kill a human. But it wasn’t. Not at all. And that ease, the way he just died and his corpse looked just like Mom’s from a certain angle, stays with you. It’s the third lesson of death: when you kill someone else, it kills you too.)  
  
You asked him how these things were possible. You remember his precise words: _I could tell you,  but your Seer abilities—that’s your visions—combined with my Heart abilities—that’s the part with the souls—tell me that if I detailed the entire story, it would severely jeopardize your emotional ability to continue waging war against this particular species of invader._  
  
You answered that in that case, you didn’t want to know. Now you wonder if you should have asked for the knowledge anyway.  
  
“Is this about that last kill earlier today?” you say softly.  
  
_It is. The reason you reacted so viscerally is deeply intertwined with your lost memories._  
  
“Will this continue to present a problem? Will I experience a similar reluctance to kill again?”  
  
_Not sure. Only if you encounter another alien with that blood color, I think._  
  
You relax. There are virtually no green-blooded aliens; almost all of them come shades of dark red and brown and orange. “Then I will stay ignorant.”  
  
There are no words, just a silent feeling of acknowledgement. The pressure of Dirk’s presence fades from your mind.

 

 

 

 

You’re Dave Strider, you’re fifteen years old, and you’ve been leading your group in the wrong direction for _three weeks._  
  
You wait with an impassive expression while the local settlers continue explaining that you’re several hundred miles south of where you need to be, and that you’ve actually been heading in the _opposite_ direction of the last known location of the fabled Society of the Crossed Needles. When they’re done you nod silently and turn back to the thirty or so people waiting anxiously for you to speak.  
  
Roxy snorts. _Kids these days… nowadays teenagers spend their time leading misfit bands of survivors in a brave and valiant attempt to fight back against their alien would-be overlords. In MY day all we did was hang out with cute carapaces in watery sea apocalypses!_  
  
Your brain-ghost ecto-teen-paradox-mom isn’t a rambler like you used to be when you were a little kid, but she makes a fair attempt. She tells you that in the universe where you played Sburb you still had your habit of going off into tangents, even as you grew older. That sounds weird and completely unlike you, but maybe that’s just what happens when you get to actually _leave_ the apocalypse and go play a meta-universal Game with your friends instead of staying on a destroyed Earth.  
  
“Navigation error,” you announce. “We’re gonna restock our supplies and then we’re heading that way.” You point. “Any questions?”  
  
There’s awkward shuffling. Finally someone speaks up. “How are you so sure the Society even exists?”  
  
There’s a chorus of mumbled agreement. “Yeah,” another guy adds. “All we’ve heard is rumor. Shouldn’t we focus the fight on areas to the west, where the invasion is worse?”  
  
There’s a part of you that wants to shrink in the face of their judgment and your mistake, you’re so new at this leadership business, but Roxy lays a comforting pressure on the back of your mind. _You’ve got this, kiddo,_ she says.  
  
“It’s not rumor,” you say. You lean down and pick up a fallen branch with your left hand, holding it above your head as you clench your fist and it implodes into nothingness. Then you hold up your right hand so they can see a small potted succulent appear in your palm. “Not rumor, just Rose Lalonde. She’s got a different branch of the same kind of sicknasty powers that I’ve got.”  
  
_Ha, branch!_ Roxy giggles. _Get it? Because you said—_  
  
_Yo. Concentrating over here in the corporeal realm,_ you tell her silently.  
  
It’s not the first time you’ve explained this. You scan the faces arrayed before you and try to figure out what to say, because they still don’t look convinced that the Society is Rose’s doing, even though to you it’s so obvious that it can’t be anyone else but her.  
  
You get it, though. The journey is long and they’re running out of reasons to believe it isn’t aimless. It’s getting to them.  
  
“Look. A month ago, when we went on a raid. Who remembers how many kills we made?”  
  
“Fifty seven!” they roar.  
  
“That’s nothing. That’s pretty fucking good for thirty three humans and three hours, but it’s still nothing. And I made over half of those kills on my own.” You shift your grip on the sword that hangs at your waist, the one you conjured from Void two years ago. “See, I’m not good at strategy. Or leading people. Or organizations. Or making things like a plumbing system, or building a workable civilization that will actually take us as a species away from this hellhole of a post-apocalypse, or these technologies we keep seeing from the traders who say they’ve crossed paths with the Society.  
  
“But one thing I am good at? Fighting alongside my sis. And we can pick off all the stragglers we want, but if we’re going to take back our planet from these parasites, then we need to stand together.”

 

 

 

 

Your name is Rose Lalonde, you are fifteen years old, and strange news has reached the Society.  
  
“The alien base is… no longer appearing on our surveillance system.”  
  
At the moment you are meeting with two tech experts. You are naturally the best tech expert in the compound, thanks to Dirk helpfully providing facts and schematics from your frontal lobe, but you’ve delegated these two the task of monitoring New York City, the locus of alien field operations on Earth.  
  
Your current location is your primary strategy room: seated at a long mahogany table in the dining room of a luxury estate in the middle of the woods, guarded by a mile-wide perimeter of the best-armed, best-fed, best-supplied resistance group in the continental US (and likely on the planet). You are, due to a long series of events culminating in you destroying an entire alien battleship entirely on your own in plain sight of the entire compound, in charge of this resistance group. Despite what Dirk calls your “Seer abilities,” this came as much of a surprise to you as it did to everyone else.  
  
You rest your chin on your hands. “Are you saying they have developed a new cloaking technology that works against our surveillance tech? Are you saying they know we have surveillance tech?”  
  
The techie shakes her head. “There’s nothing left to appear on our system.”  
  
Her partner lays a series of printouts on the table. The first, dated to a week ago, is a pixelated view of the strange, curving structure from above, with the black and grey dots that signify aliens swarming over it. The last, dated to a few hours ago, is the same structure reduced to rubble.  
  
The middle photograph shows a blur. You pick it up delicately. “I take it this shows the events that caused the violent destruction of the base?”  
  
“From the video we were able to discern that it was some kind of weather phenomenon. A localized tornado of some kind.”  
  
You press a finger to where the last photo shows untouched trees at the edge of the disaster zone. “ _Very_ localized.”  
  
“My thoughts exactly. Upon noticing the unnaturalness of the event, I examined the tapes more closely.” The techie (what was her name again?) lays out another couple photographs. One is a blurry closeup of two figures floating high above the grey whirlwind, one shrouded in black, the other in bright blue. The other photo is of the same area, but the figures are gone. “These photographs were taken a few seconds apart. In this one the humanoid figures are present, and then they’re not.”  
  
“And you think these phenomena are linked?”  
  
“It’s my belief that this was caused by someone on our side.” She hesitates. “Caused by someone like you.”  
  
You consider the idea briefly. “Possible, but highly unlikely. How are you so sure that this wasn’t—”  
  
_John and Jade._  
  
You pause. Dirk’s tone is feverish, frighteningly so.  
  
_Those figures are John and Jade,_ he says. _They’re like you, Rose. John used the tornado to get rid of the base, and Jade used her Space powers to teleport them in and out._  
  
You find it difficult to speak in a “mind-voice” rather than an audible whisper, but you are in a public place, so you make an effort. (The rest of the Society does not need to know you have a voice in your head, however mysteriously helpful.) _Are you absolutely, completely sure?_  
  
_Yes. I sensed a burst of power several days ago; this was probably it—their Aspects are both highly powerful and potentially destructive. And it’s definitely John and Jade in that photo._  
  
The techie is staring at you hopefully. “Have you had a vision?”  
  
“A small one,” you lie. “Your guess is correct. We need to signal those two as soon as possible.”  
  
_You said you could ‘sense’ their work. Is there a way to send a burst of power back? One they would recognize and follow?_ you ask Dirk.  
  
_Maybe. If they have Jake and Jane in their heads, and their powers work similarly enough to mine. It’s certainly plausible._  
  
“I may have my own way to signal them,” you say aloud. “Thank you.”  
  
As you turn to leave, Dirk’s presence in your consciousness burns with a new sensation. It takes you a moment to recognize it: hope.

 

 

 

 

You’re Dave Strider, and on your sixteenth birthday three teenagers appear suddenly in the center of your camp.  
  
Between your alarmed comrades who are pointing their guns in the teenagers’ direction and your instincts telling you to draw your sword, it’s a while before you process the intruders’ appearance and why it looks so hauntingly familiar.  
  
_Ohmygosh it’s RoLal part two!!!!!!!!!_ Roxy squees. _Wow, I can’t believe I finally get to meet this universe’s version of her, she sounds so badass!!_  
  
Then you figure it out. The breath whooshes from your lungs.  
  
Rose is saying something urgently to the closest gun-holder, and there’s an aura of command to the way she stands that shocks you. A pair of apparently normal knitting needles is stuck into her sash. Roxy got you used to thinking of Rose as your sister, so you search for your own features in hers. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you see the similarity to the hook of your noses and the tilt of your eyebrows.  
  
Then your eyes are drawn to John and his eye-burningly bright blue hooded thingy. He’s taller than you, which was _not_ the case six years ago, and his face shows his Chinese genes more obviously than you remember.  
  
Jade looks… worrying.  
  
She’s exhausted, sagging against John—their faces so amazingly similar, now that you think about it—who’s trying to support her and raise his hands in surrender at the same time. You remember her as chubby and constantly laughing as a ten-year-old, but now she’s almost as thin as you. She has the same look of hunger that you used to wear, that you see on other people every day—the look of someone who knows that there’s food out there, but that it belongs to someone else. Rose and John, at least, seem well-fed.  
  
Your eyes meet, and she offers a weak smile. “There you are,” she says. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

 

 

 

 

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you’re sixteen years old when the memories come back.  
  
Jade is sitting beside you, pointing at a mess of robotics parts and asking you if Dirk has any suggestions for a particular engineering problem, when it happens. You stagger out of your chair, clutching at your stomach, gasping as the stench of blood and fire fills your mind.  
  
Logically, you know that you are in the Society’s main compound, but your last memory isn’t of talking to Jade, it’s Roxy’s face above you as cold seeps through your clothes and the life drains from your limbs. Darkness streaks across your vision. The faces of your friends, of—  
  
—of—  
  
—you remember Kanaya, and you begin to sob.

 

 

 

 

It seems that there is no universe where you can stop them from taking what you love. It's the fourth lesson of death: that even its mastery cannot save you.

 

 

 

 

Regrettably, you are still Rose Lalonde, and even more regrettably, the Game was still a thing that happened.  
  
But, as Dirk sometimes reminds you, you’re not alone anymore.  
  
It’s hard to find a moment alone when you are constantly struggling for your lives, but you find one to talk to Dave. You have flashes of Dave on the meteor, talking to Terezi, and for a moment you scrutinize him, trying to see the differences, the similarities. He talked differently in that universe than in this one. He's more serious in this place, all the humor and innocence bled out through the years of hunger and destruction.

Eventually you sit next to each other, on the floor, leaning against a wall. He takes off his shades in front of someone else for the first time in two months.  
  
“Did you ever count how many trolls you killed?” he asks slowly. “Personal kills, I mean.”  
  
“At first.” Kanaya’s laugh rings ghostly in your ears, and you close your eyes. “I stopped counting after seventy-nine.”  
  
He nods. For a while you just sit there, mourning for trolls you never knew.

Finally Dave says, “Karkat wanted to be a soldier. He had this fancy name for it, I didn’t pay attention, but he wanted to be a foot soldier.”  
  
“I didn’t think he wanted to be on Alternia at all,” you say.  
  
Dave lets his head roll back until it thuds against the wall. “He had to worry about his blood color. He didn’t like that. But he said that if they hadn’t played the Game, he’d want to be a soldier. Hell, maybe I’ve already killed him. I don’t remember any trolls with red blood, but I wasn’t looking for it, was I? And half the time I just use Knight of Void powers to make them disappear. There’s no blood then.”  
  
“I think the same thing, sometimes,” you admit, thinking of her eyes and her quiet smile. “With—Kanaya.”  
  
“I didn’t spend enough time with him,” says Dave. “God, I just saw everything as a competition. Over Terezi. I don’t think I ever really noticed what he was like, what kind of person he was, I was so caught up in trying to prove how emotionless and unfazed I could be. And it sucks, Rose. It sucks knowing he’s probably dead because of his mutation. It sucks knowing he could be dead because of me.”  
  
You take his hand and squeeze. The gesture doesn’t come naturally. Nothing familial or comforting ever does for you, and you wonder if it ever will.  
  
_It will,_ Dirk tells you. _You’re just not used to it._  
  
_I can't believe you're giving me advice when I recall a certain someone having relationship problems ‘up the wazoo,’ thank you very much,_ you shoot back. Now that you know Dirk is a real person and not just a helpful presence at the back of your mind, you realize how lucky you are to have someone willing to stop you from wallowing in your loneliness. Since Kanaya's not here to do that.  
  
_That’s the thing about family,_ he says with a teasing edge to his voice. _I don’t have much first-hand experience but I’m told there’s a social contract where we’re basically required to prevent any cases of moping. Dave and Roxy and I._  
  
“And Jade and John,” you say aloud.  
  
Dave twitches, and you offer your best approximation of a smile. (Kanaya always knew when you were faking.) “Dirk and I were talking about family. You and Dirk and Roxy and Jade and John and I might as well all be one family now. Jake and Jane are included in that as well, I suppose. And I've heard that the point of family is to go through things together.”  
  
The side of Dave’s mouth curls up. “Dude, no. You can’t pronounce us all family when Roxy has a thing for John. She’s trying to deny it, but it’s so totally true.”  
  
You laugh. It’s a broken, choked-up sound, courtesy of the tears that are trying to leak from your eyes, but it’s still a laugh.

 _Is this sufficient interpersonal interaction for you?_ you ask Dirk.

He projects a sense of contentment into your mind. _It's a start._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> despite the fact that this chapter received the least editing and proofreading of any so far, it was also a chapter that i'd been thinking about since the fic started, and my ideas for what was going to happen were thematically consistent (death, loneliness, focus on rose and dave) but the actual events that i wanted to write about in the loooong string of things that i came up with for this time period in this au changed all the way up until i finished writing it. it was interesting. 
> 
> a few assorted/random things that were important:
> 
> 1) i was originally gonna about the 4-yr time period after their memories are returned (~age 16) to the point where rose and dave are captured and rose sends kanaya a message from the holding cells in ch. 3 (~age 20), but then i realized that their younger years explain their current characters/personalities/personal issues much more interestingly
> 
> 2) i've always pictured john and jade as east asian
> 
> 3) i rly like outsider pov. it was fun having other characters talk abt rose and be in awe of her from a distance
> 
> 4) this is the second time jade and john have been caught on blurry security tapes in this fic. maybe im just unimaginative
> 
> 5)  
> rose + dirk = seer of light // prince of heart // seer of heart // prince of light  
> dave + roxy = knight of time // rogue of void // knight of void // rogue of time  
> jade + jake = witch of space // page of hope // witch of hope // page of space  
> john + jane = heir of breath // maid of life // heir of life // maid of breath
> 
> 6) idk if this was properly explained, but the reason dave can't use time powers is because in this au, when terezi screwed around with retcon powers, she broke the entirety of paradox space and created a new universe where there are no timelines -- doomed or otherwise -- and no other universes except the one they're currently inhabiting. so theres no way for dave's time powers to work at all.
> 
> 7) i feel like the easiest thing to do would have been to pair dirk with dave and pair rose with roxy, but i switched it around bc i feel like personality-wise and skills-wise, there's a lot more similarity between dirk and rose and roxy and dave than is typically acknowledged. dirk and rose are both eloquent, highly intelligent, calculating people who repress their emotions way too much -- and roxy and dave are both impulsive hands-on learners who chatter constantly and are highly empathetic despite being often unable to recognize their own emotions (and they also have a weakness for cute stuff).
> 
> 8) i didnt intend for this fic to have davekat but THERE IT IS, i just. couldn't stop myself from implying it strongly at the end of the chapter because i LOVE THE TWO OF THEM SO MUCH even though the fic is almost all from terezi and vriska's pov so it will probably never be brought up again. sorry...
> 
> 9) i spent a lot of time thinking abt the character development and adolescent experiences of rose and dave in this au as opposed to terezi and vriska. one way or another, all four of them ended up being far more violent and unjust than they would ever have expected or want to be, due to their situations (the awful military alternian culture vs. nightmarish apocalyptic alien invasion earth), and despite having vastly different personalities and struggles, all four of them are worrying that they havent been good people so far in their lives, and wondering if its actually too late to change themselves.
> 
> 10) i didnt *intend* for the parallel character development thing to happen when i planned out these chapters, but it just sort of did?? i guess i just tend to be interested in writing certain kinds of topics, so i do it unconsciously
> 
> 11) the whole beta kids/alpha kids two-in-one combo thing means that their old classpect powers dont work as well as the two blended together. for example, its a lot easier for dirk+rose to use seer of heart powers to figure out people's motivations than it is to use seer of light powers to determine the most advantageous path, which is why dave couldnt use rogue of void powers to escape the condesce's prison.
> 
> 12) did anyone actually read all twelve items in this list??? this list is longer than i thought it would be. uh well if youve actually read this far, i applaud you i guess


	9. what hand dare seize the fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: non-graphic descriptions of death and violence, and... that's pretty much it? looks like i actually decided not to do awful things to the characters this time around. wow. weird.

 

“We need to return the memories you took, at least for Vriska if not to anyone else,” says Rose. “The problem is that neither of us know how.”  
  
Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you are standing in the lieutenant’s quarters that the Condesce repurposed for the beta kids. The four of them are not allowed to leave, of course, and the door only opens to you, Vriska, or the empress, but to your surprise the accommodations are otherwise quite generous for a group of aliens that were very recently prisoners. When you mentioned it to the empress, she just shrugged with a swish of her monstrous hair and said something about it being the only free space left on the warship.  
  
Rose is fiddling curiously with a husktop, which you assume is cut off from any outside transmissions. You sniff discreetly, but you don’t think there are any surveillance grubs.  
  
She sets the husktop down and brushes her hair from her face. “I was hoping that if I explained more about my understanding of the events that occurred, our combined Seer knowledge could assist in this conundrum.”  
  
“Sounds reasonable,” you say. Your cane clacks across the floor as you take a seat next to her on one of the four soft slab-like things that were wheeled into the block when the servants came to shove the recuperacoon in the corner. Another discreet sniff tells you that Dave, John, and Jade, who are whispering inaudibly together on the opposite side of the block, have tensed significantly with your proximity to their friend Rose. They don’t say anything or look in your direction—after all, there’s nothing they can do.  
  
“I began experiencing flashes of insight from the Game ‘shard’ embedded within my being only _after_ our memories returned,” says Rose, “which I believe was at the same time that your memories appeared as well. At age sixteen, correct?”  
  
“Eight sweeps, yes. The same age we were in the other universe before everything went to shit.”  
  
She’s got her pink human fronds on some kind of pulp-based recording device that you believe a highblood would call a ‘notebook’ and is scribbling furiously in familiar violet ink. “Interesting,” she murmurs, like she’s the science character in a TV show.  
  
“And what, pray tell, is ‘interesting’?”  
  
“The intriguing part of all this is that this universe, which appears to be cobbled out of scraps of timelines from the previous one, has—holes. Places where things don’t quite make sense, where the edges don’t quite match up. There have been incidences where it appears that two different entities are trying to occupy the same space at the same time, with curious effects.”  
  
You narrow your oculars. _Two different entities are trying to occupy the same space at the same time._ A sneaking suspicion begins to build in your mind…  
  
Rose is still talking. “The universe in which the Game took place was not one universe, but multiple. But about a month after our memories returned, I found myself suddenly in possession of unsourced knowledge, including the inexplicably certain knowledge that a broken-off piece of the Game is currently inhabiting my being. An example of that unsourced knowledge is this: I can tell you with perfect certainty that the universe we currently inhabit is the only one. There are no more universes. Nowhere.”  
  
“But—there must be thousands, hundreds of thousands of universes,” you say uneasily. “The Game is played over and over, and within individual universes there are hundreds of thousands of different timelines—”  
  
“Yes, Terezi,” she snaps. “This is what I am trying to convey. In stealing the power that John found and wielding it in a way it was not meant to be wielded, you singlehandedly destroyed the multiverse and shoved into existence a new universe, one without any timeline but this one, that conforms to a particular set of rules—a set of rules much like the one that the Game followed, but entirely different.”  
  
“By rules do you mean laws of physics, or—”  
  
“You created this” she waves her hand through the air “with a certain set of intentions, which were most likely used as the blueprint for this _thing_ that we inhabit. You do not remember those intentions, but I have spent the past four years carefully deducing them.”  
  
She sets down the notebook and turns it in your direction.  
  
“I can’t read that,” you say.  
  
She sighs. You can smell the controlled hatred on her breath, even if she betrays no sign of it in her body language or her voice. You can admire that: she is trapped in an impossible situation, bound to serve her worst enemy and cooperate politely with the troll who put her in that service, but she’s damn well not going to let it show.   
  
“One: the Game never happened. Two: the human and troll players are all alive,” Rose recites. “Does that second requirement hold true?”  
  
“As far as I am aware? Yes. I can’t speak for Eridan and Gamzee, though, since I cut ties with them at Conscription.”  
  
“Three: all godtier players retain their abilities and conditional immortality.”  
  
Your fists clench nervously. “Your phrasing sounds as if those who don’t have godtier powers won’t ever regain any Game-related abilities.” If so, that’s not good—the Condesce is only keeping you around because she thinks your Seer powers are useful.  
  
Rose shakes her head. “The Game shard has given me some useful instincts. I have a hunch that you retain your powers, but that you’ve repressed it so that you don’t have to deal with the consequences of the Game being real.”  
  
You adjust your ocular shades. “…and how did you come to that conclusion?”  
  
Instead of answering, she continues reading off her list. “Four: _all_ players’ consciousness are preserved, even if they do not possess a corporeal form.”  
  
You think of the Condesce and the way that she can draw from the memories of her other selves, including the Beforan Meenah Peixes, without picking up a single shred of compassion. “When you say _all_ players…”  
  
“Do you hear your dancestor’s voices in your head, or has that not manifested for you trolls?”  
  
You blink. “ _Definitely_ not. Do you?”  
  
Rose pauses. When she speaks, her voice is the same, but there’s a slight drawl in the way her words blend into one another, and her inflections are distinctly changed. “Sup. Dirk Strider, less than pleased to meet you.”  
  
At that, your mouth drops open. “Oh, _that_ is interesting,” you say, and grab hold of either side of Rose’s head, ignoring her shout of alarm, and quickly drag your tongue over her eyeball.  
  
You release her and retreat to a safe distance while she retches, scrubs frantically at her gaze orbs, and swears violently in your direction.   
  
“Your oculars tasted clearly of orange soda,” you say gleefully. “Not a hint of lavender.”  
  
“Yes, my eyes change color when I allow Dirk to come forward,” Rose says, scowling, voice back to normal. “You could have simply _asked_ me for that information.”  
  
“But this was so much more fun! I see what you mean about consciousness being preserved.”  
  
You can tell that Rose is still angry, and probably for far more reasons than a simple lick to the gaze orb, but she lets it rest.  
  
“Five: no more doomed timelines.”  
  
That drags you abruptly out of your fit of giggles. The scent of blood floods your sniffer, thick and cloying, and only the sharp pain of your claws digging into your palms reminds you of where you really are. Suddenly it hits home that the list that Rose is spouting is a list of decisions you made when you destroyed the multiverse, and you think that on that night, you would have done anything if it meant you would never have to witness your friends dying again.  
  
“I think that’s why no timelines exist at all,” Rose says. “That’s why Dave can only use Void powers and not his own Time powers. Because there are no timelines to manipulate.”  
  
You nod.  
  
“Six: Vriska is alive, and does not remember that you killed her.”  
  
Cold spreads through your limbs.  
  
“I admit, that was more of a hunch rather than an educated guess,” she continues. “But it was based on careful observation. After you visited my torture cell, I put together your behavior then with your behavior on the meteor during our three-year journey.  
  
“You’re saying that I erased her memory—and the memory of everyone else in our session—because I didn’t want her to know that I had to kill her?”  
  
“Yes. The guilt is written quite plainly on your face. It helps that I have Seer and Heart abilities which help me discern motivations quite easily.”  
  
You swallow. “It’s an effective explanation for why not everyone has their memories returned,” you admit. It’s also true that almost every night you think of how glad you are that Vriska doesn’t know what you did. “But how does that relate to _returning_ the memories? Doesn’t that indicate they’re permanently lost?”  
  
Rose shakes her head. “I doubt it. Because rules six and four are contradictory. You attempted to preserve everyone’s consciousness, if not their bodily forms, but that consciousness includes the memories you hid away.”  
  
“And? Sgrub had plenty of convoluted and contradictory rules and that never stopped it.”  
  
“This is different. It obeys something else that I’ve noticed, something that’s a bit harder to explain.” She chews her lip and you realize that you’ve actually managed to get her at loss for words, which you understand is quite the achievement. “Once I started realizing there was a shard of the shattered Game locked inside me, I started to experience different layers of reality. There are things that are _definitely_ true, that can’t ever be changed, and there are things that are just sort of laid over the top. It’s the difference between well-done makeup and plastic surgery.”  
  
“…and?”  
  
“When I look at Vriska, I see two layers. Has she told you that she has died and regenerated with godtier powers?”  
  
You shake your head. “No, she didn't." You consider a little longer. "It likely happened during her training. The military officer’s academy is based on the principle that if you can’t cull your way to the top you don’t deserve to live.”  
  
Rose’s mouth twists; probably recalling that Vriska’s training is focused on exterminating and enslaving alien populations like her own.  
  
Then you frown. “Wait, that can’t be true. She hasn’t regenerated her arm or her eye.”  
  
“On the top layer—the impermanent, illusory layer—she has one eye and one arm. On the lower layer, the hard cold reality layer, she has her vision eightfold and all her limbs.”  
  
“And you think there’s a way to, what, peel back the illusory layer? And that will get rid of whatever is blocking Vriska’s memories as well as heal her?”  
  
She nods. “It would also restore your Mind powers and allow Vriska to use her capabilities as a Thief of Light, both of which I your empress made clear she desires immensely."  
  
“I hope that you’re introducing this theory because you have a way to get rid of that illusion.”  
  
“Perhaps.”  
  
You sigh, wondering if this is why so many people got fed up with your “Seer nonsense” during the game. “Perhaps _what_?”  
  
“All the illusions go back to you. I assume that means you are the only one who can banish them.” Rose shrugs. “I also assume that since you clearly do not still possess the retcon ability, it’s merely a matter of you coming to terms with your guilt.”  
  
You sigh again. This _is_ why the other players in your session got fed up with you. “Is there any specific plan for how to do that, or…?”  
  
“Well, maybe you should have a heart-to-heart with your girlfriend,” Rose says sweetly. She says ‘girlfriend’ like it’s a synonym of ‘ruthless murderer,’ which you suppose is just Vriska’s typical effect on people.  
  
“Ooh, Miss Lalonde, _ooh_ ,” you snicker. “I always forget that humans consider piling a commonplace activity.”  
  
Rose’s fake smile gets wider. “If you don’t want to listen to my advice, then I can’t stop you.”  
  
You return her saccharine expression with a sharp crocodile grin. “Believe me, Lavender Soap, if a pusher-to-pusher conversation with Vriska was all it took then we would be done by now.”  
  
“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.” Rose shuts her notebook and stands up. Her tone is contemptuous. “Allow me to show you the door.”  
  
“You’re aware you’re still a prisoner, right?”  
  
On the other side of the room, the other three humans are standing as well and glaring hostilely at you. None of them were allowed to keep their weapons in their block, but Jade certainly looks like she’s willing to beat you to death with her bare grasping appendages.  
  
You put up your fronds in a gesture of surrender. “I’m going, I’m going.”  
  
As you leave, you bite the bullet and troll Vriska. You hate to admit it, but Lalonde may be correct: you’re still hung up on Vriska’s forgiveness, and now that she says it’s related to your task, your mind-torture-induced obedience instincts are refusing to allow you to ignore it any longer.  
  
\-- galacticCalamity [GC] began trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \--  
  
GC: H3Y  
GC: C4N W3 T4LK  
AG: C8n it w8? Some l8ser in the requisitions 8ranch is trying to argue with me a8out clothing rations.  
AG: This guy is really, REALLY n8t grasping the fact that trolls can’t c8nquer territory if they are frozen inside actual liter8l 8locks of ice.  
AG: Which, due to the c8mplete lack of n8n-faulty unif8rm heating units, is a thing that is actually, literally happening.  
AG: I can’t 8elieve I’m dealing with this shit.  
GC: 4S MUCH 4S 1 C4R3 4BOUT CLOTH1NG R4T1ONS  
GC: WH1CH 1S NOT 4 LOT  
GC: THOUGH 1 DO 4PPR3C14T3 YOUR FRUSTR4T1ON W1TH TH3 4CTU4L L1T3R4L BLOCKS OF 1C3  
GC: TH1S 1S 1MPORT4NT  
AG: Well, get on with it then!!!!!!!!  
GC: 1 N33D TO H4V3 4 F33L1NGS J4M W1TH YOU  
AG: Oh.  
AG: Ok8y.  
AG: . . . . noooooooo offense, 8ut you d8n’t seeeeeeeem all that upset, soooooooo . . . .  
GC: 4PP4R3NTLY MY GU1LT OV3R 4 C3RT41N 3V3NT 1S WHY YOU C4NT R3M3MB3R 4NYTH1NG, 4ND 1 N33D YOU TO FORG1V3 M3  
GC: OR 1 N33D TO F33L TH4T YOU H4V3 FORG1V3N M3  
GC: OR SOM3TH1NG  
AG: Sounds like 8ullshit to me.  
GC: MOST S33R TH1NGS DO  
AG: Siiiiiiiign. Is it w8rth reminding y8u that I d8n’t kn8w what “seer things” are?  
  
You look up from your palmhusk in order to place your frond on the sensor and unlock the door to yours (and Vriska’s) quarters. You make sure the door locks behind you, then fling your jacket into a corner and settle into the pile that the two of you made last night, before you ran into the empress’s throne room and organized an extensive negotiation process to prevent the four human kids from getting themselves culled and/or gleefully executing Her Imperious Condescension, neither of which seemed like good ideas. Of course you’d prefer your moirail to actually be in the same block for a feelings jam, but you’re kind of hoping to just get this over with.  
  
It’s _nice_ having Vriska not know.  
  
GC: 1 K1LL3D YOU  
  
A shudder rolls through your limbs. You swallow, steeling your nerves, and wait for the response.  
  
AG: Uh  
AG: Really?  
AG: 8ecause I feel very alive.  
GC: 1N TH3 OTH3R UN1V3RS3 DUMB4SS  
AG: Oh, riiiiiiiight.  
AG: The OTHER universe.  
AG: The other universe th8t I tooooooootally know aaaaaaaallllllll a8out.  
AG: Not!  
GC: 1  
GC: 1 JUST BR13FLY CONS1D3R3D TRY1NG TO 3XPL41N SGRUB TO YOU BUT 1 R34L1Z3D TH4T YOU DONT D3S3RV3 TH3 M3SS TH4T WOULD TURN 1NTO  
GC: W41T.  
GC: VR1SK4  
GC: ROS3 W4S S4Y1NG TH4T YOUV3 4LR34DY D13D ONC3 4ND R3G3N3R4T3D  
AG: I d8n’t kn8w. May8e.  
AG: For m8st of my training I was sec8nd pl8ce in the rankings, and one night the troll in first place put a knife through my st8mach.  
AG: I manipul8ed her into putting other knife through her neck, and then I passed out and w8ke up wearing this weird orange-yell8w tunic-dress thing.  
GC: W3LL TH4T C3RT41NLY L3NDS SOM3 CR3D1B1L1TY TO L4LOND3S TH3ORY  
GC: 4NYW4YS  
GC: L3TS TR34T TH1S 4S 4 HYPOTH3T1C4L S1TU4T1ON  
GC: PR3T3ND 1TS 4 FL4RP C4MP41GN SC3N4R1O 1F 1T H3LPS  
AG: Ok8y, sure. I guess.  
GC: SO  
GC: YOUR3 TH3 TH13F OF L1GHT 4ND 1M TH3 S33R OF M1ND  
GC: W3R3 SUPPOS3D TO B3 WORK1NG TOG3TH3R, BUT OUR WHOL3 R3V3NG3 CYCL3 M3SS 1S ST1LL F41RLY R3C3NT 1N OUR M1NDS, SO W3R3 NOT G3TT1NG 4LONG SO W3LL  
GC: THE TH13F H4S 4 COMB1N4T1ON OF POW3RS TH4T M4K3 H3R R34LLY, R34LLY GOOD 4T F1GHT1NG  
AG: Ooooooooh, in what sense?  
GC: 1N TH3 S3NS3 TH4T TH3 TH13F H4S 4 H4B1T OF CONST4NTLY CH34T1NG D34TH  
AG: Cooooooool!!!!!!!!  
GC: UNFORTUN4T3LY NOT TH4T COOL  
GC: B3C4US3 TH3 TH13F TH1NKS SH3 C4N W1N 4NY F1GHT  
GC: 3V3N 4 F1GHT 4G41NST 4N UNB34T4BL3 3N3MY  
AG: So that’s h8w I die?  
GC: NOT QU1T3  
GC: TH3 S33R C4N T3LL TH3 3X4CT OUTCOM3 1N TH3 FUTUR3 OF 4NY D3C1S1ON  
GC: 4ND SH3 F1NDS TH3 TH13F 4BOUT TO GO OFF 4ND F1GHT TH1S UNB34T4BL3 3N3MY  
GC: 4ND TH3 S33R KNOWS TH4T TH3 TH13F W1LL LOS3  
AG: And what, y8u let me go to my death? 8ecause that d8esn’t sound all thaaaaaaaat 8ad.  
AG: I 8et it w8s ann8ying as fuck, 8ut I’m alive n8w. So whatever.  
GC: WRONG 4G41N 4DM1R4L BLU3B3RRY  
GC: 1 D1D QU1T3 TH3 OPPOS1T3  
GC: OR TH3 S33R DID  
GC: FUCK.  
GC: WH4T3V3R  
GC: 1 KN3W TH4T 1F YOU W3NT TO CONFRONT TH1S 3N3MY, 1T WOULDNT WORK AND H3D FOLLOW YOUR TR41L B4CK TO WH3R3 M3 4ND 4LL OUR FR13NDS W3R3  
GC: 1 S4W K4RK4T D34D. 1 S4W MYS3LF D34D.  
GC: 4ND WE H4D 4LR34DY LOST SO M4NY  
GC: SO 1 ST4BB3D YOU 1N TH3 B4CK.  
GC: 1 K1LL3D YOU.  
AG: . . . . . . . .  
AG: That’s h8rdc8re.  
GC: 1S  
GC: TH4T 4LL YOU H4V3 TO S4Y  
AG: Well, it sounds pretty justified.  
AG: I’m n8t really sure why you’re m8king such a huge deal out of this.  
AG: You HAVE culled trolls 8efore, right? In your legislacer8tor training?  
GC: OF COURS3  
GC: BUT 1 D1DNT K1LL SOM3 R4NDOM TROLL  
GC: 1 JUST R3V34L3D TO YOU TH4T YOUR MO1R41L, TH3 ON3 P3RSON YOU SHOULD 4LW4YS B3 4BL3 TO TRUST, SHOV3D 4 SWORD THROUGH YOUR B4CK 4ND W41T3D P4T13NTLY WH1L3 YOU BL3D TO D34TH  
AG: Were we dating in this altern8te universe scenario?  
GC: NO  
GC: 1 TH1NK YOU TR13D FL1RT1NG P1TCH W1TH M3 4 F3W T1M3S BUT YOU D1DNT DO 1T V3RY CONV1NC1NGLY 4ND YOU W3R3 MOSTLY OCCUP13D W1TH POUR1NG H34RTS 4LL OV3R JOHN 3GB3RT 4ND H1S 4WFUL 4CT1ON MOV13S W1TH TH4T ON3 C4G3 HUM4N  
AG: We flirted pitch? Ewwwwwwww.  
AG: I h8ve no idea wh8t the rest of that was supp8sed to mean, though.  
GC: N3V3R M1ND  
GC: YOUR3 NOT 4T 4LL D1STURB3D BY TH3 KNOWL3DG3 TH4T 1 C4US3D YOUR D34TH?  
GC: >:?  
AG: I don’t kn8w how to 8r8k this to y8u gently, 8ut one time I culled a guy for saying I’d put my jacket on inside out. Smashed his skull open with the coffee machine, actually.  
AG: So yeah, that scenario y8u talked a8out seems very reasona8le. You’re seri8usly feeling guilty over it?  
GC: Y3S  
AG: No. D8n’t 8e stupid.  
  
You set the palmhusk down and close your ocular lids. It never occurred to you that because the Vriska Serket of this universe was older and so, so different from the Vriska Serket of the universe where you played the Game, she might not even care about what you did.  
  
The Terezi Pyrope who stabbed Vriska in the back desperately wished for a different Vriska, one who felt regret for the murder of her friends, one who cared about the difference between justice and revenge, one who was _good._ Suddenly your thorax aches, because that Vriska is not real.  
  
Maybe if instead of doing what you did, you told Egbert to go back and keep her alive and change virtually nothing else, she would have become that. But in this world? Never.  
  
Except that Vriska is nothing but the dream of your eight-sweep-old self from a destroyed universe, and your eight-sweep-old self never culled a troll because her superior told her to, or realized that the Alternian legislacerative system was deeply corrupt, or performed competently in a imperially sanctioned profession while also maintaining a friendship with the most notorious anti-imperial insurgents in the galaxy cluster, or endured nights and nights of mental and physical torture, or sold her human friends to the Condesce in exchange for her own safety.   
  
The Vriska who lives in this world, whose life purpose is the enslavement of entire civilizations, is not all evil. She felt remorse for dragging you into this position, after all, and she risked a painful death to warn your friends— _your_ friends, not hers—about the empress’s drones.  
  
But the weight that resides in your bones still lifts, because she is also just as twisted and awful and evil and guilty as you are, and with her you don’t need to seek forgiveness.  
  
GC: 1 R34LLY P1TY YOU, YOU KNOW TH4T?  
AG: Well, o8viously!  
AG: I am pretty awes8me, after all.  
AG: :::;)  
  
There’s a sensation like a rubber band being stretched taught and then snapping, but everywhere in the universe at once.  
  
You blink.  
  
You sniff around you. Nothing seems to have changed.  
  
Your palmhusk beeps, and you lick the screen.  
  
AG: TEREZI  
AG: HOOOOOOOOLY FUCK  
AG: I  
AG: MY ARM!!!!!!!!  
AG: AND I H8VE MY VISI8N EIGHTF8LD AGAIN  
AG: AND  
AG: oh.  
AG: Oh no.  
AG: No no no no no no no no.  
GC: WH4T 1S 1T  
AG: Did I reeeeaaaally h8ve a crush on Eg8ert?  
  
You snicker.  
  
GC: DO YOU ST1LL H4V3 4 CRUSH ON H1M  
AG: Gog, no.  
GC: GOOD TO KNOW  
GC: S1NC3 TH3 HUM4NS 4R3 V3RY MUCH OUT FOR OUR BLOOD 4T TH1S PO1NT  
AG: Th8t was s8me impressively cold-hearted negoti8ting 8ack there, 8y the w8y. I’m very impressed 8y the total lack of pointless her8ics.  
GC: PL34S3 DONT G3T K1LL3D  
AG: I d8n’t really need a reminder on that, actu8lly. Although my g8dtier p8wers will pro8a8ly protect me.  
GC: TH4TS WH4T 1M S4Y1NG  
GC: DONT G3T YOURS3LF K1LL3D, B3C4US3 1 TH1NK YOUR DEATH WOULD B3 JUST.  
AG: So you’re s8ying th8t I’ve 8ecome so evil that if I die, I’ll die permanently?  
GC: 1M NOT JOK1NG VR1SK4  
AG: I know.  
AG: Is it weird th8t I think y8u’re right, 8ut I can’t 8ring myself to care thaaaaaaaat much? I’ll try not to die, 8ut I d8n’t really care that a giant destiny clock s8mewhere would think I deserve permadeath.  
AG: May8e I’m just really, reeeeeeeeaaaaaaaally evil.  
GC: 1 DOUBT 31TH3R OF US 4R3 FORG1V4BL3 4T TH1S PO1NT  
GC: TH3 ONLY TH1NG W3 C4N DO 1S K33P GO1NG  
AG: And t8ke care of each other, of c8urse.  
GC: TH4T TOO  
GC: VR1SK4?  
AG: Yes? :::)  
GC: TH4NKS.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter marks the end of the first arc! after this one, we'll enter arc II, and all the chapter titles will come from a different poem: "the old astronomer" by sarah williams. if you've ever heard the line "for i have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night," it's from that poem, and i've always been disappointed in how ppl pick out the famous two lines and ignore the rest. so yeah.
> 
> you probably noticed this chapter is half the length of the rest. that's going to be a pattern from now on, since arc II involves a lot more perspective-shifting and will hopefully be a little faster-paced and jumpier than arc I. it also might make it easier to read.
> 
> UPDATES WILL SLOW DOWN because not only do i need to plan for the next arc, but i'm also starting a medium-length work for another fandom.


	10. (ARC II) — though my soul may set in darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the first chapter of Arc II! since it's a new arc, all the chapter titles will come from a different poem: sarah williams' poem "the old astronomer." if you've heard the famous lines "though my soul will set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light / for i have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night," it's from that poem -- ive always been annoyed at how ppl only quote those two lines, even though the rest of the poem is so cool and the real meaning of those lines doesnt even make sense without considering the earlier stanzas. so there.
> 
> WARNINGS: discussions of death, torture, drugs, and general mind fuckery with icky connotations (nothing graphic).

You are Terezi Pyrope, and you’ve just finished an intensive strategy session that lasted most of the night. This strategy session that included the Condesce, Rose Lalonde, and the other three humans. Not that John, Jade and Dave talked much—they spent more time looking sullen and staring suspiciously at you and the empress from the other side of the (recently repaired) conferencing plateau.  
  
Tensions were, unsurprisingly, higher than a four-sided cloth gliding toy. At one point you made a sudden move toward your husktop, trying to update Vriska on the latest strategy decisions as soon as possible, and Harley had you staring down the barrel of Ahab’s Crosshairs before you could even straighten up. You were so startled at the familiar smell that you asked Jade how the _hell_ she was in possession of a weapon that you remember clearly as belonging to Eridan Ampora. Jade just glared harder.  
  
Then the empress rolled her eyes and casually crushed the barrel of the rifle with one hand, and after _that_ particular display it took a full half hour to get everything calm enough so that you could actually talk military strategy.  
  
You’re exhausted, and now that you have a solid plan to lure out, compromise, and capture the Drinerus aliens’ high command—an idea you partially modified after the effectiveness of the capture of Rose Lalonde and Dave Strider—all you want to do is crawl into your recuperacoon.  
  
Unfortunately, it seems that this is going to be exponentially more difficult than it has to.  
  
AG: Did y8u check the newsfeeds t8day?  
GC: NO  
GC: TH3 ONLY N3WS 1 4CTU4LLY TRUST 1S TH3 N3WS 1 G3T STR41GHT FROM TH3 COND3SC3 OR FROM K4RK4T 4ND COMP4NY  
AG: You’ll 8e thanking me once y8u check them.  
  
You rub at your ocular lids and open a window to the imperial newsfeeds channel. You sniff the screen blearily as a number of headlines roll past: MARK V IN ACTION: EXCLUSIVE ADVANCE FOOTAGE!!!… GENERAL TORSHA REASSIGNED, REPLACED BY NEW ADMIRAL (the article is accompanied by a photo of Vriska smirking in her academy uniform)… FOOD RATION ADJUSTMENTS “EFFICIENT” AND “SENSIBLE”… ROGUE RUFFIANNIHILATOR INJURES SUBJUGGLATOR TRAINEE…  
  
You stop. You read that last headline again. You lick the attached photographs.  
  
Dread knots in your stomach, poisons your insides.  
  
GC: SO YOUR3 NOT TH3 ONLY ON3 WHO GOT TH31R M3MOR13S B4CK L4ST N1GHT  
AG: O8viously.  
  
The article is full of intensely vitriolic phrases and is clearly intended to impress upon its audience the foolishness of a scrawny olive-blooded ruffiannihilator trying to attack one of her “betters.” After a paragraph it’s clear that it’s more drivel from the empress’s propaganda department, so you don’t bother reading further. You have the two mugshots, one of Nepeta’s cheerful face, one of a fully-grown indigo clown that is just barely recognizable as Gamzee Makara in all his adult glory.  
  
GC: TH1S 1SNT GOOD  
AG: Well, it’s not gr8 for HER. For us it doesn’t really matter. I just figured you would want to kn8w.  
GC: YOU DONT UND3RST4ND  
GC: N3P3T4 4ND 3QU1US H4V3 B33N P4SS1NG 1NFORM4T1ON TO SOLLUX FOR SW33PS  
AG: They’re cultists?  
AG: Seri8usly???????  
AG: I mean, Leijon? Cat puns and everything?  
  
You think of Nepeta, small and kind and cheerful to a fault, risking death or worse every night not because of any special belief in the Cult of the Signless Sufferer, but because it doesn’t even occur to her not to help her friends in any way she can.  
  
(But you aren’t like that, are you? Even while you were still in school, your legislacerative cadet’s license allowed you access to a thousand restricted databases, and more importantly, a vast web of connections that could have made it so much easier, so much more risk-free for the Cult to find and rescue trolls on the verge of being culled. But you never did. And Karkat and the others never pushed, didn’t want to presume, and constantly ran from the drones while you sat comfortably in your schoolfeeds. And now it’s too late, you’re in too deep, the water is over your head and there is no way to alter the choice you made.)  
  
You go to the imperial criminal database and use your security clearance to take a sniff at Nepeta’s profile. A quick scan tells you that they suspect nothing of her involvement with the Cult, but you don’t relax—Nepeta has proved herself brave and resilient past the expectations of anyone who knew her on the homeworld, but you don’t know anyone who could remain strong in the face of an imperial interrogation.  
  
HATCHNAME: Leijon, Nepeta  
TITLE: none  
OCCUPATION: Ruffiannihilator, Third Class  
CRIME: High treason (assault on a member of the indigo caste)  
  
The profile goes on to list Nepeta’s hatchsign, hemocaste, any known quadrants (just Equius, listed as a bioroboticist and helming specialist), and a wealth of other useless information. You scroll down to the description of the crime.  
  
_At the time and date listed above, the perpetrator boarded the Holy Wrath, a Class II vessel in the service of the Church, under the pretense of a mission from her superior. The method through which Leijon tampered with the imperial personnel database is currently unknown to the legislaceratorial squad at this time._  
  
You wince. The “method” is likely that Sollux and Equius had been working on, something that let them get through imperial security measures without detection. You think it has something to do with helmtech, but you have no idea how it’s actually supposed to work. All you know is that before now, the Condesce’s cyber division was completely blind to this form of attack, and now they’d be working to track it down.  
  
_After boarding the ship, security footage reveals Leijon proceeding immediately to subjugglator cadet Gamzee Makara’s respite block, indicating that not only was this a planned attack, but that she was already aware of Makara’s place of residence. Upon reaching Makara’s respite block, Leijon waited until Makara opened the door of his own accord and accosted him with a set of retractable claws affixed to her hands (standard gear for a ruffiannihilator third class)._  
  
_Security footage reveals that Makara sustained most of his injuries in the first few moments of the altercation, when he was caught by surprise._  
  
_Makara initially attempted to respond with a chucklevoodoo-based assault, only to find that Leijon was resistant. (At this time, the legislaceratorial squad is unable to find any history of resistance to mental manipulation in Leijon’s past.) After realizing this, Makara drew his clubs from his strife deck and quickly subdued his attacker. Although Makara quickly fell into a killing rage, due to the extent of his wounds, he was unable to strike a killing blow before the arrival of reinforcements._

 _The reinforcements, two other cadets, rendered Leijon unconscious for questioning before bringing the prisoner and their comrade to the mediculler bay._  
  
_Cadet Gamzee Makara is currently undergoing intensive treatment for the following injuries: (1) blinded right eye (2) partially blinded left eye (3) severe blood loss (4) severed vocal cords (5) severed jugular vein (6) multiple skin lacerations. Current status: unconscious, currently unavailable for questioning._  
  
_Leijon was healed in sufficient degree to submit to questioning and is currently undergoing intensive interrogation from both this legislaceratorial squad and the Church of the Mirthful Messiahs._  
  
_As of now, Leijon has refused to reveal any information about her motives, her methods, or the sources of her information. She is currently incarcerated aboard the Holy Wrath, awaiting public trial for the crime of high treason._  
  
_During the altercation, when Makara attempted to use chucklevoodoos as an offensive strategy, he and Leijon had a brief verbal exchange. It is as follows:_  
  
_LEIJON: NICE TRY, BUT I’M A HEART PLAYER. THAT WON’T WORK ON ME._  
  
_MAKARA (in pain): AND SINCE WHEN CAN YOU USE YOUR ABILITIES FOR SHIT, MOTHERFUCKER?_  
  
_LEIJON (actions growing more furious): SINCE YOU KILLED MY MOIRAIL._  
  
_Leijon’s officially registered moirail is Equius Zahhak, who has been listed as such since their Ascension. Zahhak is a bioroboticist assigned to a helmsman maintenance position on the same ship as Leijon. He is alive and currently in custody, awaiting interrogation._  
  
_The above conversation appears to indicate that Makara and Leijon have met before. However, the nature of subjugglator training, which lasts five sweeps instead of the customary two in order to ensure full conditioning and indoctrination into the Church, enforces complete isolation from any member of the middle and lower castes (outside of culling missions, of course). All records indicate that there is no way in which Makara could have encountered Leijon at any point after Conscription. For that reason it seems that their interactions, and therefore the incident referred to in their short conversation, were limited to their pre-Ascension sweeps._  
  
This isn’t good.  
  
AG: I’m actually vaguely impressed over here. Reeeeeeeeaaaaaaaally did n8t think she had it in her.  
GC: 4R3 YOU R3F3RR1NG TO TH3 1NSURG3NCY OR TH3 4TT3MPT3D MURD3R  
GC: B3C4US3 SH3 D1D TRY TO K1LL H1M DUR1NG TH3 G4M3 1F YOU R3C4LL  
GC: JUST W1TH L3SS SUCC3SS  
GC: TH3 1NSURG3NCY TH1NG H4S TO DO W1TH H3R 3SS3NT14L D3C3NCY 4ND K1NDN3SS 4ND URG3 TO PROT3CT H3R FR13NDS 4T R1SK TO H3RSELF WH1L3 4LSO ST4Y1NG 4T TH3 S1D3 OF H3R P4L3M4T3  
GC: 4ND OTH3R SUCH SUG4RY SW33T TH1NGS  
GC: ON TH3 OTH3R H4ND 1 SUSP3CT 3QU1US ONLY PUTS UP W1TH TH3 R3ST OF US B3C4US3 N3P3T4 WOULD B3 UPSET 1F H3 TURN3D US 1N  
AG: Does Zahhak still do his thing  
GC: WH4T TH1NG  
AG: You kn8w . . . . . . . .  
AG: His thing.  
AG: His weird sweaty thing.  
GC: OH  
GC: Y3S  
GC: Y3S H3 DO3S  
AG: Eeeeeeeewwwwwwww.  
AG: Kinda wish Makara was the one who got locked up, th8ugh, he gave me the creeps.  
AG: Like even 8efore he was a psych8tic murderer, his weird d8pey n8nsense was alw8ys just toooooooo inn8cent to 8e true.  
AG: And w8sn’t he a8solutely h8rri8le to y8u on the meteor? While I was 8usy 8eing dead.  
AG: More like, while I was 8usy flirting with the altern8 universe version of the C8ndesce and c8mpletely ignoring my cr8zy d8ncestor and the even cr8zier gh8st-m8rduring Lord of Time.  
AG: Oh gog, what the fuck was WRONG with me . . . . . . . .  
GC: Y34H 1 PR3F3R NOT TO TH1NK 4BOUT G4MZ33 M4K4R4 OR YOUR GHOSTLY ROM4NT1C SH3N4N1G4NS W1TH THE P31X3S D4NC3STOR  
GC: W3 BOTH M4D3 V3RY STR4NG3 D3C1S1ONS  
GC: 1T W4S 4LL V3RY S1LLY  
GC: 1N 4NY C4S3 1 N33D TO CH3CK ON K4RK4T 4ND K4N4Y4 4ND SOLLUX 4ND S33 HOW TH3Y 4R3 T4K1NG TH3 4BRUPT R3TURN OF TH31R M3MOR13S  
GC: 1 4M CONF1D3NT TH4T K4RK4T H4S 4LR34DY D3P4RT3D FROM TH3 PROV3RB14L H4NDL3 V14 4N 3L4BOR4T3 4CROB4T1C F34T  
GC: 1 WOULD F1ND TH3 PROSP3CT F4R MOR3 4MUS1NG 1F 1 W3R3 NOT WORR13D TH4T 1 4M 4BOUT TO B3 3XPOS3D 4S 4 TR41TOR  
AG: What are the chances that Leij8n spills?  
GC: H1GH  
GC: 1MP3R14L 1NT3RROG4T1ON 1S NOT K1ND  
AG: 8ut it’s not like they’d actually 8elieve her if she tells the truth. She starts 8a88ling a8out Sgru8 and meteors and Heart powers and the interrog8tors will just think she’s crazy.  
GC: 4ND 1F TH3Y STUMBL3 ONTO H3R SUFF3R1ST 1NCL1N4T1ONS  
AG: It’s not that you’re not t8tally right in that this is a huge pro8lem and you might 8e already screwed, 8ut there’s also a 8ig chance they won’t notice a thing.  
AG: Even if they figure out she thinks the hemocaste is 8ullshit, it’s not like they’ll immediately think “ok, this o8viously means she is personally familiar with the Second Sufferer.”  
AG: A lot of people think the hemocaste is 8ullshit.  
AG: I’m 8asically the empire’s favorite troll right now and even I think the hemocaste is 8ullshit.  
GC: R34LLY  
GC: 1 M34N  
GC: OF COURS3 YOU TH1NK TH4T  
AG: Terezi, do you seri8usly think I’d still 8e on your side if I didn’t have some dou8ts a8out the way the empire is ruled?  
GC: 1 KN3W TH4T 4LR34DY  
GC: BUT YOU 4R3 V3RY… 1NTO… TH3 1D34 OF CONQU3ST  
AG: And????????  
GC: 4 LOT OF SUFF3R1STS B3L13V3 TH4T TH3 1MP3R14L POL1CY OF CONST4NT W4R 1S JUST 4 M3CH4N1SM TO D1V3RT R3SOURC3S 4ND M41NT41N CONTROL OV3R TH3 LOWBLOODS  
AG: Hmm.  
AG: I can see h8w someone would think that, 8ut I’m pretty sure the imperial p8licy of constant war is just a mechanism to sate the empress’s desire to sta8 things and 8e in control of everything. Which is a goal I can get 8ehind.  
GC: Y3S 1 H4V3 NOT1C3D HOW MUCH YOU ENJOY ST4BB1NG TH1NGS  
AG: It has a l8t more therapeutic value than shooting thing d8es. When you shoot s8mething all you feel is the rec8il, not the resistance of blade versus flesh.  
GC: HOW WOND3RFULLY BLOODTH1RSTY  
AG: It’s kind of my jo8.  
GC: 1 FUCK1NG H4T3 MY BR41NSPONG3  
AG: Uh  
AG: Everything okay there? ::::O  
GC: NO 1TS JUST  
GC: 1 SORT OF 3XP3R13NC3 LOW-L3V3L D1SCOMFORT L1T3R4LLY 4LL TH3 TIM3  
GC: S1NC3 MY THOUGHTS 4R3 V1RTU4LLY CONST4NTLY TR41TOROUS  
GC: BUT TH3 MOM3NT TH3 CONV3RS4T1ON TOP1C SH1FT3D TO TH1NGS TH4T H4V3 “TH3R4P3UT1C V4LU3” FOR YOU 1T 4LL SUDD3NLY W3NT 4W4Y  
GC: 1N F4CT 1 4M S3NS1NG 4 PL34S4NT T1NGL1NG 1N MY 3XTR3M1T13S  
GC: WH1CH MY BR41N 1S 1NH3R3NTLY H4RDW1R3D TO R3C31V3 POS1T1V3 R31NFORC3M3NT WH3N TH1S K1ND OF TH1NG H4PP3NS  
GC: FUCK 1TS F4D1NG  
GC: TH3 F33L1NG 1S GO1NG 4W4Y  
GC: FUCK FUCK FUCK 4LL 1 W4NT TO DO 1S M4K3 TH3 F33L1NG H4PP3N 4G41N  
GC: OH NO 1TS HURT1NG  
GC: 1TS ST4RT3D HURT1NG 4G41N ONLY 1TS WORS3 TH1S T1M3  
GC: OH GOG  
GC: 1 H4T3 TH1S WHY 1S TH1S H4PP3N1NG  
AG: Take a deep 8reath.  
AG: Fill up your lungs.  
AG: Inflate your aeration sponges, whatever you want to call them.  
AG: Now let it out sl8wly.  
AG: 8reathe in.  
AG: Out.  
AG: In.  
  
Your head throbs and your stomach churns with queasiness, and it feels as if needles are being stabbed into your pressure points. You try to breathe like Vriska is saying—you know that it’s an effective calming technique from your legislaceratorial training, and more importantly, right now the idea of disobeying orders is too painful to consider.  
  
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In—  
  
And then suddenly you understand why this is happening. You let out a hoarse laugh. It chokes in your throat; you sound like an animal dying.  
  
GC: 1TS W1THDR4W4L  
GC: VR1SK4 1TS FUCK1NG PSYCH1C W1THDR4W4L  
GC: TH3 COND1T1ON1NG C4NT JUST R3WR1T3 3V3RYTH1NG OR 1 WOULDNT B3 4BL3 TO TH1NK STR4T3G1C4LLY OR DO 4NYTH1NG OTH3R TH4N M1NDL3SSY F1LL OUT R3QU1S1T1ON FORMS  
GC: SO 1NST34D OF H4RDW1R1NG OB3D13NC3 1NTO MY P4N TH3Y M4D3 1T L1K3 4 DRUG  
GC: SO TH4T WH3N 1 DO SOM3TH1NG R1GHT 1T F33LS R34LLY GOOD 4ND 1F 1 STOP DO1NG 1T 1 F33L SO B4D 1 W4NT TO D13  
GC: 1T WOULD B3 D3B1L1T4T1NG 1N TH3 LONG T3RM SO 1 B3T 1T ONLY K1CKS 1N FOR TH3 V3RY F1RST COUPL3 OF W33KS  
  
Vriska is currently onboard her newly manufactured battleship, heading toward the front lines of the Drinerus conflict. She left only a few hours ago. Ordinarily a Second would accompany their officer on their assignments, but the Condesce sent you a memo forbidding you from taking a transport to Vriska’s side until two weeks had passed since you were released from the mediculler bay. She didn’t bother giving you an explanation.  
  
GC: 1 B3T 1T W1LL ONLY R33M3RG3 1N 4N 3XTR3M3 S1S1TU4T1ON  
GC: B3C4US3 1T WONT N33D TO COM3 OUT 4T 4NY OTH3R T1M3 B3C4US3 1LL B3 SO HOOK3D ON FOLLOW1NG ORD3RS TH4T 1LL B3 T3RR1F13D TO DO 4NYTH1NG 3LS3  
GC: FUCK1NG H3LL NO WOND3R TH3 S3CONDS 1N TH3 GOSS1P M4GS 4R3 SO CH33RY  
GC: TH3YR3 H1GH  
AG: . . .  
GC: FUCK  
GC: 1 DONT W4NT TO TURN 1N TO 4NOTH3R P3RSON  
GC: 1 DONT W4NT TO  
AG: There might 8e something I can do. I don’t like it, and you’ll pro8a8ly h8 me for suggesting it, 8ut it’s the only thing I can think of.  
  
You’ve never witnessed Vriska _holding back_ her opinion. You frown, concerned.  
  
GC: WH4T 1S 1T  
AG: I need to think a8out it.  
AG: Listen, I have to go soon. We’re entering or8it around the 8ase planet in three hours and I’ve scheduled a tour of the facilities in thirty minutes, app8rently they’ve installed a new helmsman and everything, and then I should pro8a8ly go intimid8 the crew into su8missi8n 8efore we reach our destination.  
AG: Did you hear they’re renaming the ship for me?  
GC: 1 4PPR3C14T3 YOUR 4TT3MPT TO CH4NG3 TH3 SUBJ3CT  
GC: Y3S 1 JUST R3C31V3D TH3 P4P3RWORK  
GC: THE C3RUL34N GLORY  
AG: Yeah!!!!!!!! I tried telling them I’m more co8alt than cerulean, 8ut the annoying propaganda guy ign8red me.  
AG: He thinks “the Cerulean Glory” sounds 8etter than “the Co8alt Glory.” I think that if he doesn’t stop pissing people off he’s going to end up with a 8ullet through his thor8x.  
GC: NOT FROM YOU 1 HOP3  
AG: Nah, I prefer sta88ing.  
GC: H3S 4LSO F4R TOO V4LU4BL3 TO K1LL  
AG: Ehhhhhhhh.  
  
The throbbing ache is still pulsing on every inch of your skin, but the mental image of Vriska murdering the assistant head of the empress’s PR department is enough to make you grin.  
  
You finish your goodbyes quickly, because there’s a blinking light in the corner of your screen in Kanaya’s color. You know what that is going to be about and you are not looking forward to it.  
  
You open the window, expecting to be brought into a secure trollian connection, but instead a vidchat pops up.  
  
“ _You!_ ” says Kanaya the moment the audio kicks in.   
  
You blink in surprise. Kanaya’s hair is completely unbrushed, smudges of sopor linger on her collarbone, and there are greenish bags under her gaze orbs from not sleeping properly. Her glow is brighter than usual, indicating her distress, and her expression is half-furious and half-panicked.  
  
“Me,” you confirm cautiously.  
  
“You’re in the Condesce’s employ,” she says, oculars wide. “ _Where are they_.”  
  
For a fraction of a second you panic; you hadn’t decided how you were going to play this. Admitting you knew Rose was being tortured would be a spectacularly awful idea and might even lead to a chainsaw severing your head from your body, but you’re not sure what else to tell her. She is owed the truth, after all. “What do you mean?” you hedge.  
  
“She talked to me, she asked for my help and I didn’t even _remember_ her—please, Terezi—Rose and Dave, I need to find out where they are—!”  
  
“I know where they are.”  
  
She jolts upright and starts asking frantic questions, so you opt for shouting, “Kanaya. _Kanaya!_ They’re safe, okay? They are perfectly alright.”  
  
For now, anyways.  
  
“Earth has been under attack,” you explain. “All four of them made a deal with the Condesce. She has the memories of every version of herself from the Game, she knows who they are and what their godtier powers can do. They’re going to start using their abilities to help the empress conquer. Specifically to help Vriska—I am her Second, and she and I are in charge of developing strategy that makes use of the humans’ abilities.”  
  
Kanaya looks like someone hit her over the head with a board. “ _What?_ ”  
  
“You can’t contact her directly just yet, as I doubt the empress will be allowing any outside transmissions, but there aren’t any surveillance grubs in their block. I’ll find a way to get you in contact with her.”  
  
Her eyes are wide and uncomprehending and her expression is the poster image for information overload. You sigh. “Kanaya. Go talk to your moirail.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“Just do it.”  
  
You exit the vidchat without listening to her protests. Then you longingly stretch a grasping appendage in the direction of your recuperacoon, get a more disciplined grip on yourself, and troll Sollux. There are things you need to take care of.  
  
\-- galacticCalamity [GC] began trolling [redacted] [TA] \--  
  
GC: D1D YOU S33 N3P3T4 1N TH3 N3WSF33DS  
TA: ye2. ye2 ii fuckiing diid.  
TA: iin fact iive been workiing overtiime coveriing our collectiive a22e2 before the fiishbiitch2 cyber2ecuriity diiviisiion trace2 NP back two u2.  
TA: 2o thii2 better be iimportant.  
GC: K4N4Y4 1S FL1PP1NG H3R SH1T OV3R H3R 3STR4NG3D HUM4N G1RLFR13ND 4ND 1 TOLD H3R TO F1ND K4RK4T 4ND C4LM TH3 FUCK DOWN  
GC: SO TH3YR3 BOTH BUSY  
GC: DO YOU H4V3 4 PL4N TO G3T N3P3T4 OUT OF TH3R3  
TA: ii dont even know where the fuck 2he ii2 okay  
TA: or iif 2he2 dead already  
GC: D1D YOU LOS3 YOUR 4CC3SS TO TH3 1MP3R14L D4T4B4S3S  
TA: no ii ju2t dont want two go anywhere near them untiil thii2 me22 ha2 diied down and ii know iif anythiing ha2 been compromii2ed.  
GC: 1 H4V3 4CC3SS TH3 L3G4L W4Y B3C4US3 OF MY JOB  
GC: H3R3  
\-- galacticCalamity [GC] has sent the file N3P3T4_1NC1D3NT_R3PORT.txt \--  
TA: …  
TA: holy 2hiit.  
TA: ii mean ii already fiigured that2 why 2he would go after GZ 2o 2uddenly and wiithout telliing anyone but  
TA: iit2 2omehow more shockiing two read iit 2o plaiinly  
TA: ii mean ii cant blame her, ii pretty much want two hunt down ED for all the 2hiit he pulled duriing the game, and al2o the la2t thiing thii2 uniiver2e need2 i2 more fuckiing clown2  
TA: iit2 ju2t that goiing after hiim liike that wa2 kiind of a collo22ally 2tupiid move  
GC: 1 CONCUR  
  
You wonder if any of them have thought to wonder what precisely happened on the night the Game ended. It’s possible that they all think it was an extraordinary glitch and not a result of a specific individual’s actions—after all, you still have only the vaguest memory of what you did to crash the multiverse. You guiltily hope that they never figure it out.  
  
TA: you know ii thought ii would be reliieved two know that NP and EQ arent dead yet  
TA: except iit turned out two be 2o much more depre22iing than ii antiiciipated.  
GC: S4M3  
TA: yeah.  
TA: iif the juggalos are even half a2 bad a2 popular culture make2 them out two be, then when we get them out of there ii 2eriiou2ly doubt theyll want two do anythiing other than beg for death.  
GC: Y3S W3LL  
GC: 1 H4D 4 V3RY R3C3NT 4ND 3XTR3M3LY UNFORTUN4T3 3NCOUNT3R W1TH TH3 F41THFUL 4ND D3VOT3D S3RV4NTS OF TH3 CHURCH  
GC: TH3 B3ST TH1NG 1 C4N S4Y 4BOUT TH3 3XP3R13NC3 1S TH4T 1 C4NT R3M3MB3R 4NY OF 1T  
TA: oh well, that2 not 2o bad then  
GC: TH3Y WONT B3 SO LUCKY  
GC: 1 W4SNT B31NG TORTUR3D FOR 4 CONF3SS1ON 1 W4S B31NG TORTUR3D FOR OB3D13NC3 COND1T1ON1NG L1K3 4 FUCK1NG B4RKB34ST  
GC: 1T FUCK1NG WORK3D TOO  
TA: huh  
TA: ii2 iit liike helm2sman condiitiioniing  
TA: becau2e iive done a lot of re2earch iinto that, iit2 actually kiind of iintere2tiing when you get over the fact that youre e22entially 2tudyiing the 2y2tematiic detrolliizatiion and arguable murder of thou2ands of psiioniic2  
GC: 1 H4V3 NO 1D34 WH4T H3LMSM4N COND1T1ON1NG 1S L1K3  
GC: 4ND 1 H4V3 NO D3S1R3 TO D1SCUSS TH3 P4RT1CUL4RS OF MY OWN COND1T1ON1NG W1TH YOU  
TA: 2orry  
TA: ii forgot iit mu2t be a 2ore 2ubject  
GC: >:[  
GC: WHY 4R3NT YOU B31NG MOR3 OF 4N 4SSHOL3  
GC: 1TS S3R1OUSLY OUT OF CH4R4CT3R  
TA: iim just beiing fuckiing 2ympathetiic  
GC: HOLY FUCK M1ST3R 4PPL3B3RRY BL4ST  
GC: WH3R3 4R3 TH3 1R4T3 1NSULTS  
GC: WH3R3 1S TH3 BL4T4NT 1NS3NS1T1V1TY  
GC: WHO 4R3 YOU 4ND WH4T H4V3 YOU DON3 W1TH SOLLUX C4PTOR  
TA: youre a fuckiing obnoxiiou2 douchewhii2tle.  
TA: there  
TA: happy now?  
GC: 1TS G3TT1NG TH3R3  
TA: you know the other day ii caught my2elf thiinkiing “hey ii havent talked two TZ iin a whiile, ii should try that, iit miight be fun”  
TA: 2omehow ii triicked my2elf iinto forgettiing how fuckiing weiird you are  
TA: why do ii keep doiing that  
TA: dont an2wer that.  
TA: 2udden 2ubject change, where are you, oh there you are, thank gog:  
TA: ii have 2omethiing iimportant two a2k you.  
GC: WH1CH 1S  
TA: okay 2o ii have two iimportant thiing2 to a2k you, fir2t up i2, who the fuck put VK iin charge of an army.  
GC: YOUV3 4LR34DY 3XPR3SS3D TH4T S3NT1M3NT  
GC: ON MULT1PL3 OCC4S1ONS  
TA: on tho2e occa2iion2 ii hadnt ju2t read an iimperiially 2anctiioned new2feed sayiing that VK i2 takiing over a major battlefront, ju2t takiing over completely out of nowhere  
GC: SHOCK1NG 1 KNOW  
TA: liiterally ii want two know the 2peciifiic name of the poor deluded a22hole that thought 2he could be a respon2iible leader  
GC: YOUR3 TH1NK1NG OF H3R 1MP3R1OUS COND3SC3NS1ON  
TA: ok yeah that make2 2en2e, ii already knew 2he wa2 in2ane  
GC: NO OFF3NS3 BUT 1 4M GO1NG TO H4V3 TO R3MOV3 MYS3LF FROM TH1S CONV3RS4T1ON DU3 TO TH3 ST34D1LY GROW1NG P41N RUBB1NG UP 4ND DOWN MY N3RV3 3ND1NGS  
TA: waiit are you 2eriiou2ly iin a lot of paiin riight now  
TA: becau2e you really arent actiing liike iit  
GC: 1NSULT1NG TH3 3MP1R3 1S 1NCR3D1BLY S4T1SFY1NG 4ND 1 4M TRY1NG TO OV3RCOM3 MY P41N TOL3R4NC3 H3R3 BUT 4FT3R 4 C3RT41N PO1NT 1 WOULD R34LLY PR3F3R TO F4LL 4SL33P 1N VR1SKAS LUD1CROUSLY H1GH QU4L1TY SOPOR  
GC: WH1CH 1S WH4T 1 H4V3 TO S3TTL3 FOR S1NC3 SH3S FUCK3D OFF TO TH3 OTH3R S1D3 OF TH3 G4L4XY  
TA: ehehe, that2 what you get for datiing VK  
GC: 1TS NOT H3R F4ULT TH3 COND3SC3 H4S ORD3R3D US TO B3 1N D1FF3R3NT PL4C3S  
GC: YOUR3 JUST J34LOUS B3C4US3 YOUR3 S1NGL3  
GC: H3H3H3H3H3  
  
\-- galacticCalamity [GC] ceased trolling [redacted] [TA] \--  
  
TA: waiit fuck! ii need two talk two you  
TA: ii know paiin 2uck2 bulge but ii really need to a2k

\-- galacticCalamity [GC] began trolling [redacted] [TA] \--  
  
GC: M4K3 1T QU1CK, MY P41N R3C3PTORS 4R3 1N FULL R3VOLT  
TA: ii need two know the names of the legii2lacerator2 iin charge of NP2 triial  
TA: the iinformatiion ii2nt acce22iible on any of the databa2e2, you can u2e your old academy contact2 two fiind iit  
TA: iit2 the kiind of thiing iid ordiinariily a2k NP two do but that2 obviiou2ly not an optiion  
TA: ii know you dont liike gettiing iinvolved iin thii2 2tuff, and youre dealiing wiith a 2hiitload of 2trange dangerou2 2tuff ii dont really get, but were runniing out of optiion2  
TA: ii ju2t need name2, ii can fiigure out the re2t from there  
GC: 1LL S33 1F 1 C4N SW1NG 1T  
  
\-- galacticCalamity [GC] ceased trolling [redacted] [TA] \--  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> other changes: from now on, the chapters are shorter, due to the greater number of characters, active plotlines, and POV switches. (sorry about taking forever, btw, i needed time to work on planning this arc!) that means i'm not going to be updating just on sundays -- ill have a very erratic posting schedule, but i'll still be (hopefully) posting as much as i did before, just in differently timed chunks.


	11. i cannot longer speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate chapter title: Vriska Finally Leaves To Go Do Her Job, And Rose Is Not Actually A Real Life Psychologist.
> 
> WARNINGS: graphic violence, blood, death, malnutrition & weight loss

You are Vriska Serket, and Terezi’s words on the husktop screen dig into your eyes like a culling fork. You’re fucking tired of being separated against your will. She’s so far away and you can’t reach her, and even if you could, _you_ are the one causing her pain, and you _hate it, you hate it you hate it—_

Your fist slams into the desk. There’s a loud crack.

Your heartbeat pounds up and down your body and your breaths come hard and fast. There’s a fracture running through the wood.  
  
_Terezi would tell me to calm the fuck down and think logically,_ you think. So you force yourself to breathe in and out slowly, like you told her to do, and remember the idea you had when you were reading her typing and getting more and more desperate to stop it.  
  
She said she thinks the Condesce is keeping you separated on purpose, so that her conditioning can settle in without interference. That means that the Condesce thinks that you could, theoretically, interfere with it.  
  
You suggested it, back on the Battleship Condescension. But Terezi froze and said _no_ in that shaky voice and looked so fucking scared at the idea of you poking around in her thinkpan that you couldn’t bring yourself to push the issue further. Now it looks like there might not be a choice.  
  
You tug at your hair, frustrated. All you know how to do is to manipul8, and you can tell if another psychic has their claws in another troll’s mind, but you’ve never tried to extricate them.  How…  
  
On the screen, trollian is still open. Just below Terezi’s trolltag is the empress’s bright fuchsia. She told you something a while back, didn’t she? While Terezi was still trapped in that room with the juggalos.  
  
)(IC: t)(eyll get your darlin gill sorted out reel nice and t)(en itll be smoot)( sailin from t)(en on  
)(IC: ill even t)(row in some psyc)(ic antivirus softweir  
)(IC: no psyc)(ics will ever be able to manipulate t)(eir wave to state seacrets via your gills brain t)(ats for shore  
)(IC: dont worry youll )(ave your own private backdoor t)(roug)( )(er mind  
  
You can’t ask the Condesce, she’d figure out what you were trying to do in a heartbeat. So, you’d have to go around her. In theory it shouldn’t be too hard, since it’s perfectly reasonable to ask the imperial conditioning specialists if there are any special features installed on one of your immediate inferiors. But you’d have to ask the right person and in the right way, so that word doesn’t get back to the empress, because you remember the other thing she told you:  
  
)(IC: you need to keep your moray eel IN LIN----E  
)(IC: i aint gonna be toleraytin anemone more slip-ups  
  
There’s polite knocking at the door to your private quarters. (It’s much, much smaller than your space aboard the Battleship Condescension, since this is a ship actually intended for active combat, but it’s still three times as large as anything the other soldiers get.) “What?” you snap.  
  
“It’s Captain Nijeia, ma’am.”  
  
You sigh. “Get in.”  
  
Harlok Nijeia is tall for a seadweller, which makes sense considering his hue is a little too indigo and not enough violet for some circles. His hair is always slicked back and he has a permanent expression of mild disdain fixed onto his face; you figure he resents being stationed underneath a blueblood. At least he’s not an idiot—you checked his profile, he’s got a history of solid tactical choices. “This would be an optimal time for you to examine the facilities, Admiral,” he prompts.  
  
You nod curtly and follow him out.  
  
It’s going to take you a while to adjust to the corridors being so cramped, after the luxury of the military academy and the empress’s ship, but it’s not like you haven’t directed platoons from ships like these before. Nijeia shows you the navigation devices, the bridge, the helmsblock—that one is a fairly horrifying experience, since you’ve never seen a recently-installed helm and this one won’t stop screaming for its quadrants until the captain gets impatient and sends a bolt of painful electricity through the biowires. Last stop is the barracks, which hold about a hundred trolls; of course, your personal division of the fleet numbers thousands upon thousands, but the _Cerulean Glory_ serves mostly as a flagship and command center, not a transport.  
  
You expect the barracks to involve a group of wide-eyed, intimidated lowbloods enamored by imperial military propaganda, since that was your experience giving your speech a few nights back. That’s not what happens.  
  
A tagalong petty officer steps in ahead of you and shouts “ _Inspection!_ ” at the top of his lungs, followed by the sounds of a large group of people shuffling and standing at attention hurriedly. When you and Nijeia walk in and march forward, you’re greeted by trolls standing nervously alongside rows of cramped metal recuperacoons with a tiny wardrobifier and personal light each. It all reeks of disinfectant. Your lip curls faintly.  
  
The captain takes you through the rows. The two of you take turns questioning the soldiers sharply, taking rhythmic cues from each other in order to strike at the right time to inspire fear and a newfound desire to keep their coonspace clean. (It’s the kind of thing you picked up at the academy.) You have a slightly different interrogation with the chief navigator and the noncommissioned officers, since you have to gain any special knowledge they have about the trolls that are serving under you. (You also have to make sure they’re actually competent.)  
  
It’s all going perfectly fine, until a sergeant comments, “There’s the occasional troublemaker, but they jump back in line soon enough,” and you notice that he’s shuffling his feet more nervously than before.  
  
“Troublemakers?” Your voice is just sweet enough to be unnerving.  
  
He hesitates, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “Just some talk, ma’am, hardly any serious incidents…”  
  
“ _Hardly_ any? So which serious incidents did occur, then? This platoon of reserve corps was formed one week ago, how did you even manage to have a major regulatory violation that fast?”  
  
Nijeia steps closer and says, voice lowered, “There was an unusual amount of discontents identified during this group’s collective training period. I inquired into having a number of them transferred to separate locales where they could not further encourage each other, but the response from higher-up was that there have been too many similar requests lately to accommodate. It’s a Fleetwide issue.”  
  
You understand why he doesn’t want to talk about it too loudly in the middle of the barracks. At the academy they made you sit through several schoolfeeds on quelling dissent in the troops, with a focus on applying imperial propaganda techniques to military leadership, and your feeders drilled into you that the last thing a potential cadre of dissenters needs is confirmation that they are not alone. “So the major incident was…”  
  
“Rust private mouthed off to a lieutenant. Used some anti-hemocaste rhetoric. It should have been handled easily, except the other grunts backed him up and it came to blows. They were subdued and disciplined appropriately, but it is still worrying. In my experience we don’t find that happening until cabin fever has set in and they’re looking for any excuse to rebel; usually it is solved after they’re allowed to get outside and chop up some aliens.”  
  
If anti-hemocaste feeling is being stirred up across the Fleet and not just on this ship alone, then you just gained some respect for Karkat’s talents as a cult leader—wait, it’s Kanaya who’s doing most of the leadering, isn’t it? Wow, fussyfangs, way to go. “What does ‘disciplined appropriately’ mean in this case?”  
  
“A perigee cleaning the barracks by hand, a decrease in rations, a demotion, and ten lashes each,” the captain answers. You give him an incredulous look. He tilts his head subtly in the sergeant’s direction.  
  
You pick up on the cue and glare at the sergeant. “You assigned that, did you?”  
  
“…yes, ma’am,” the olive-yellow answers, feet-shuffling increases eightfold.  
  
“A bunch of rusties announce their disdain for the natural hierarchy of blood—” natural, hah, what a joke “—and assault a superior and the worst you give them is _ten lashes?_ That’s what you give to a dirtblood cadet who doesn’t clean up their sopor stains, you fucking idiot, in this case it’s practically a fucking encouragement! Get the perpetrators over here.”  
  
He nods frantically, then turns and shouts in a bellow that nearly bursts your eardrums, “Herskl, Felfen, Jilari, Murlow! Get your asses over here!”  
  
The guilty trolls march over: two small rusts, a muscled brownblood, a short little yellow guy. Their expressions are a mix of apprehension and surprise, but not outright fear. Well, that needs fixing, doesn’t it?  
  
“Which one of ‘em started it?” you ask.  
  
“Private Jilari, ma’am.” The sergeant nods at one of the rusts. You scan her: girl, skinny, short hair, rumpled uniform, a distrustful glare. Unimpressive overall.  
  
You grab her collar and yank her forward. “What’s your relation to these three here, hmm?” you ask, as she yelps and tugs to get free.  
  
“Um—”  
  
“I asked you a question, Private.”  
  
The brown guy pipes up, “I’m her ashmate, Admiral.” He’s the only one with the sense to start looking truly scared.  
  
“And the other two?”  
  
“Just—just friends, ma’am,” pants Jilari, standing on her toes to avoid being choked by your hold on her collar. “Why—um, can I ask what—”  
  
“Tell me, can you see properly from here?”  
  
She's still trying to get free, but she relents when she figures out she’s not anywhere near strong enough. “Yes, ma’am?” she says, trying for a polite expression.  
  
“Good. I want you to watch.”  
  
You pull out your strife specibus: swordkind and slice off her friends’ heads.  
  
It takes three swift cuts. There’s barely any resistance compared to cutting through seadweller flesh, and the blood spurts like it’s a bad action movie and _godfuckingdammit_ there's droplets on your jacket, _ew,_ you need that cleaned as soon as possible.  
  
That’s when Jilari realizes what you’ve done and begins to scream.  
  
You hand your sword to the sergeant and mutter, “Clean this off, will you?” Then you slam her facefirst into a wall. She stumbles and falls to the ground, clutching her face, but then she comes right back up and launches herself at you.

Your leg shoots out, tripping her, and on her way down you grab a handful of hair and drag her back to your eye level. “That’s what we call a schoolfeed, Private,” you tell her. Her face is bruised and dripping with blood and red-brown tears. “Next time, try considering the consequences first.”  
  
Her eyes are filled with shock and horror and loss, and for a split second— _oh—_ in your mind’s eye is Terezi flinching at your touch _—oh no—she sounded so lost and scared and—_  
  
The private gives one last snarl and lunges at you. You snap yourself out of it and get a grip on her mind.  
  
Her expression goes blank, her muscles go slack. You open your hand and she takes a step back, salutes, and marches wordlessly back to her ‘coon. Her footprints track a swirl of rust and brown and yellow blood across the floor.

With the exception of Captain Nijeia, a hundred different faces are staring at you, mouths gaping. It’s deathly silent.  
  
“Get someone to clean this up,” you tell the sergeant. Oh, and he still hasn’t done anything about your dirty sword ‘cause he’s too busy gawking. Great.  
  
You turn on your heel and walk out, the captain on your heels. The moment the door shuts behind you he says, “The legislaceratorial division is going to want some paperwork for that.”  
  
You wave a hand dismissively. “I’ll have my Second do it, she knows that shit like the tips of her claws. The demonstration was more important.”  
  
He purses his lips disapprovingly. “I was not exaggerating when I said the rising level of discontent is consistent across most of the Fleet. If you publicly executed every one of them you would not have time to get anything done, and worse, I fear that you have merely provided them with a martyr.”  
  
“I left Jilari alive, didn’t I? She’s not a martyr now, now she’s just some private that the others’ll look at and think, hey, maybe I don’t care about dying in a blaze of glory in service to my weirdo ideals but it won’t look so good if all I accomplish is getting my quadrants culled. Besides, it was more important that they see some consequences.”  
  
“Admiral, there have been public executions broadcasted empire-wide already. This may temporarily stem the problems on this particular ship, but it will do nothing to ameliorate it in the rest of the troops you command.”  
  
“Nah, I had to make sure they don’t think I’m going to be sympathetic,” you say as the two of you pass through the control room. “I’m a blueblood in a violetblood’s spot, remember? If I didn’t do anything then the next thing you know they’d be saying I’m secretly a Sufferist.” _And it’s evidence for the Condesce that she can trust me._  
  
Nijeia makes a disagreeing noise but says nothing.    
  
When you get to your quarters and he’s about to leave, you make sure to get close enough that you can grab some of his luck. It feels like static electricity leaving his skin and coating yours, gathering in a pit in the middle of your stomach, leaving a citrus tang at the back of your throat.  
  
You’ve been leeching off all the unimportant staff you met aboard the Battleship Condescension, but you need more for the upcoming battle. Maybe it’s a bad idea to steal luck from the captain of the ship you’re about to pilot into a warzone, but… eh. You don’t like him much anyway.  
  
  
  


 

You are Rose Lalonde, and you wish you knew what to say.  
  
You don’t know how to fix Jade. She is worryingly thin—many people would call her weight “normal,” but Jade is naturally very chubby, and in comparison her current build is practically skeletal. It’s a product of severe malnutrition and various other wounds from the weeks she and John spent teleporting across the troll empire, homing in on the faint calling of the other ex-players Aspects in a desperate attempt to locate you and Dave.  
  
John is affected as well, but Jade was using her abilities to the point of burnout every single day, and she was near death by the time she tracked down Vriska’s light powers and stumbled across your prison cell in the process. The last time you saw her in such a state was after six years wandering alone and friendless on an occupied Earth, just before she recovered her memories and rendezvoused with the Society of the Crossed Needles. It was another year after that before she returned to full health.  
  
But this is worse, because her movements are not bouncy and optimistic despite the circumstances, she’s not eagerly dissecting the strange technology around her, she’s not… being _Jade._ It’s been two days. She hasn’t smiled, not even once.  
  
Right now she and John are speaking quietly in the corner of the spacious, reasonably comfortable room that has become your new prison cell. She’s leaning her head on his shoulder, and she seems to be reacting to him more positively than she reacted to you or Dave. (Or Dirk or Roxy, for that matter.) Good.  
  
Dave isn’t doing spectacularly either, but at least you know how to read him.   
  
You are lying flat on the cot your captors have provided for you, staring at the plain gray ceiling, when you feel the mattress dip and Dave says, “Sup.”  
  
You sit up and examine him. He’s wearing his shades and his face is turned away from you, but there’s a subtle pressure at the back of your mind that you recognize as Dirk’s Heart abilities activating, and suddenly you know what he’s come to talk about.  
  
“She looks almost the same, doesn’t she?” you say softly. “The hair, the colors, even the cane. Taller, and with all that darker chitin, but besides that…”  
  
“Yeah, I probably would feel better about this if she’d walked in with a sign that says ‘EVIL’ in bright flashing neon over her head,” says Dave.  
  
You nod and make an attempt at looking encouraging. Hopefully Roxy can pick up the slack in terms of emotional support from within Dave's mind; Seer-and-Heart-combo empathic abilities regardless, neither you or Dirk are particularly skilled at dealing with people.  
  
Dave runs a hand through his hair. “I liked her. A lot. I mean, I wasn’t ever in _love_ with her, but you were busy getting drunk—”  
  
You wince and hope he doesn’t notice.  
  
“—and working things out with Kanaya, and I liked hanging out with Karkat too but it never seemed like he liked hanging out with me. She was the only person on the meteor where I had a claim on most of her time every day, and that was really fucking special, alright? And when I realized she was having that thing with Gamzee, it was this sudden shock. Like, whoops! I fucked up somehow and now she’d rather hang out with the fucking murderclown in the ventilation.”  
  
“And look how well _that_ turned out,” you say. Half a second later, you realize that it was not a smart thing to say. What you meant was to indicate that Terezi’s choice did not go well for her, but you suspect you sounded rather too flippant for the situation. You are so, so bad at in-person interaction.  
  
He drums his hand restlessly on his knee, apparently unbothered by your faux pas. “It’s not like I ever thought we’d meet up again, and I figured if we did it would go differently from how it was on the meteor. But her selling us out to the empress who trashed all of humanity was definitely fucking not on the list of possibilities I imagined, okay.”  
  
You sigh. “Me neither. In fact—”  
  
There is no time to finish your sentence, because then the door buzzes urgently. There’s the sound of a cane clacking sharply against the cold tiles and then your eyes are assaulted by the sight of garish red against black and teal.  
  
“Hello, Rose, Dave!” says Terezi. She nods at the other side of the room. “John, Jade.”  
  
Dave is on his feet the moment she walks in, tense as an electric wire. Jade scowls briefly, but settles on a look that says “I’m willing to cooperate if you’re willing to not be a dick.” It’s not exactly cheery, but it’s very _her,_ and you’re optimistic all the same. John’s expression is not one you remember from the Game, but something he developed from surviving on a ravaged Earth: blanker than any Strider-patented indifference, colder than any winter wind.  
  
You have no idea what your face looks like, but you try to meet her gaze with calmness and strength. (Or to stare at her eye area as if you’re meeting her gaze. Whatever.)  
  
She’s carrying a rectangle with rounded edges that you recognize as the trollish version of a computer. “This is for you, in fulfillment of section 8, codicil 3 of the Earth-Alternia Treaty,” she announces, head tilted specifically in your direction, and places the computer on the cot.  
  
“I wasn’t aware our agreement had a name. With capital letters, no less.”  
  
“Of course! What’s a formal agreement without a name, or a treaty without capital letters? In any case, I think you’ll find it especially useful.” She turns as if to leave.  
  
You frown. “You walked here just to deliver a computer?”  
  
Terezi shrugs. “Were you expecting a buffet?”  
  
“It seems like an excess of effort just for a delivery that could easily be completed by someone else. For example, any of the robotic servants that delivered most of the contents of this room.”  
  
“Maybe I just wanted to say hello to the coolkid.” She smiles at Dave. “We haven’t talked in forever. We should do that sometime.”  
  
Her expression and body posture is perfectly guileless, genuine, and unsuspicious. The Terezi you remember _always_ looks like she’s up to something. The net effect is to result in the most suspicious thing you’ve ever witnessed.  
  
Dave crosses his arms and gives her his best stoic look. He is still visibly seething underneath it, but she doesn't react, merely produces that awful jangling-knife-drawer laugh. “Smell ya later, guys!” she says as she walks out. The door slams shut behind her.  
  
After a while, John says, “So what the heck was that?” (You’ve spent your adolescent to early adult life living in a nightmarish post-apocalyptic world, and he consistently shies away from harsh swearing. It has to be Jane’s influence, it has to be.)  
  
You look down at the computer. Curious, you flip it open and press what you assume is the start button. You’re greeted by a screen that is very similar to its Earthen counterpart, with the exception that it ripples oddly when you view it from an angle, and a cluster of apps on the desktop that are close analogues of apps you’ve used before. The trollish equivalent of Pesterchum already has a window open, which surprises you. The Condesce has had a number of limited electronic devices delivered already, but none have had any communication capability.  
  
Dave is looking over your shoulder. “There’s already an account set up for you,” he comments, pointing to the top corner, where tentacleTherapist is entered as the username. “And someone left you a message already?”  
  
\--  galacticCalamity [GC] began trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] \--  
  
GC: 4TT3NT1ON M1SS L4V3ND3R SO4P!  
GC: TH3 TROLL14N 4PPL1GRUB 1S TH3 ONLY P4RT OF TH3 HUSKTOP TH4T 1S NOT R3MOT3LY 4CC3SS1BL3 BY TH3 COND3SC3 OR H3R CYB3RS3CUR1T3RROR1SM D1V1S1ON  
GC: R3FR41N FROM D1SCUSS1NG TH1S OUT LOUD 4S WH1L3 1 COULD NOT D3T3CT 4NY SURV31LL4NC3 GRUBS 1N YOUR BLOCK 1 COULD C3RT41NLY B3 WRONG  
GC: 1F 4 US3RN4M3 1S [R3D4CT3D] TH3N 1T M34NS TH3 CONN3CT1ON 1S S3CUR3  
GC: 1F 4 US3RN4M3 1S D1SPL4Y3D WH3N 1T SHOULD B3 R3D4CT3D TH3N LOG OFF 1MM3D14T3LY 4ND DO NOT CONT4CT TH3M 4G41N UNT1L G1V3N TH3 S1GN4L TO DO SO  
GC: TO 4NSW3R SOM3 QU3ST1ONS 1M SUR3 YOULL H4V3 SHORTLY:  
GC: Y3S 1 4M 1N C4HOOTS W1TH TH3M  
GC: Y3S SO 1S VR1SK4  
GC: NO TH1S DO3S NOT CH4NG3 4NYTH1NG 4BOUT YOUR S1TU4T1ON TH1S 1S 4N *3XTR3M3LY D4NG3ROUS* END34VOUR 4ND 1T 1S ONLY H4PP3N1NG B3C4US3 K4N4Y4 WOULD NOT STOP SHOUT1NG 4T M3 4ND 4LSO CRY1NG 4ND 4LSO SHOUT1NG WH1L3 CRY1NG  
GC: 1T W4S 4 M3SS  
GC: JUST R3M3MB3R NOT TO G3T C4UGHT  
  
\-- galacticCalamity [GC] ceased trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] \--  
  
\-- galacticCalamity [GC] began trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] \--  
  
GC: OH R1GHT  
GC: TH3 H4NDL3 1S GLOW1NG4CT1V1ST  
  
\-- galacticCalamity [GC] ceased trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] \--  
  
“I have no idea what the fuck is going on here,” says Dave. You aren’t listening. Your vision is darkening in the corners, your breath is jagged, you feel your heartbeat in your fingertips and your toes.  
  
You go to the search bar and type “glowingActivist.” It’s hard with your hands shaking so badly. Dave is asking you what’s wrong, but you don’t have the patience to answer, your entire body teeming with apprehension and fear and the odd feeling of the inevitable snapping into place.  
  
The username is an unassuming jade green, and you think that the flatness of the color could never do justice to eyes like rainforests and ancient trees. You remember a meteor hurtling through space and nights spent in front of warm fires and painstakingly alchemized novels and cloth and yarn and scarves and knitting needles. You think of dying on unearthly sands, Roxy crying over you as life slips slowly from your grasp, and your last words _I wish I could have told her—_  
  
The words blink once and turn into  [redacted] [GA], and then:  
  
GA: Rose?  
TT: Kanaya.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there!!! ive been waiting for them to reunite since i started writing this :)
> 
> pls let me know if you see any typos/weird phrasing/smth that might be a typo but youre not sure. thanks


	12. that i might have cherished you more wisely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: war, discussions of past self-mutilation, brief non-graphic helmsman stuff, issues of mind-control and dehumanization (detrollization i guess??)

  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began trolling [redacted] [CG] \--  
  
TG: so uh  
TG: whats up  
TG: been a while  
TG: technically we have literally never met in our lifetimes we just remember another lifetime in which we met  
TG: what the hell is this some kind of cliche soulmate au in a poorly written fanfic  
TG: i mean what next  
TG: miscommunications  
TG: star crossed lovers  
TG: mind control  
TG: uh not that were soulmates or romantically involved or anything no way haha that was just a metaphor thingy okay moving on  
TG: rose says kanaya says youre basically the same shouty little guy we remember  
TG: i wouldve asked her more but she kind of started crying and it was uncomfortable so i just let roxy take over and do her teen ectosistermom thing  
TG: shes good at that  
TG: wait shit do you even know about the alpha session guys being inside our heads thing or do i need to explain that  
TG: karkat  
TG: i know youre reading this there arent any so and so is offline blah blah messages just fucking type something already  
TG: or do you just not want to talk to me oh shit i didnt even think of that fuck i dont want to presume or anything  
TG: its chill if you dont want to  
TG: so fucking chill its like that one room on the meteor  
TG: do you remember that  
TG: we decided it was the right size for a movie room so we alchemized a couch and a tv and a video player for old vhs tapes and dragged some extra monitors to shove against the walls  
TG: and then after a few hours we were like oh crap this room is colder than the asshole of that snowman monster thing from frozen  
TG: by the way i still cant believe theres a troll version of frozen  
TG: and i especially cannot believe that it was banned by imperial order for being *too subversive* i still do not understand which part of that animated nightmare was a danger to the imperial regime  
TG: huh actually i think you mightve actually tried to explain why or something but i think was busy making fun of you and drawing dicks on your personal belongings  
TG: kind of regretting that right now  
TG: i was a kid back then so drawing dicks in your overly complicated troll romance novels was pretty funny at the time and i guess its nice to have at least some memories of being a kid and doing stupid teenager shit  
TG: since i never really got to be a kid or a teenager this time around  
TG: but i still wish id spent less time making fun of you and more time listening to what you were saying and shit  
TG: wouldve made for better memories  
TG: but anyways that was a tangent and roxy would probably be calling me on that one if she hadnt kind of stepped out the way we do when one of us has something personal to do and doesnt want someone looking over their mental shoulder the whole time  
TG: the point is  
TG: we were like oh crap this room is cold  
TG: but we didnt want to get up and move all our shit to a different spot so we arm wrestled over who had to go and alchemize blankets  
TG: and you lost so you left to go the alchemiter  
TG: the half hour without you was a really fucking chilly half hour okay you radiated warmth like a goddamn portable heater  
TG: and then you came back with a metric fuckton of blankets and we watched a couple of movies and bantered back and forth with each other over it  
TG: i think terezi was supposed to be there too but she ditched us for the juggalo and i remember being a little upset over that  
TG: except it ended up being okay because hanging out with you alone wasnt so bad  
TG: and it was warm under the blankets  
TG: and  
TG: yeah  
TG: fuck that was weird wasnt it  
TG: really didnt intend to make this weird but it somehow happened anyway  
TG: can definitely understand why youre not responding right now i wouldnt respond if i were you  
CG: IT’S FINE, ASSHOLE.  
CG: I WOULD HAVE ANSWERED SOONER, BUT KANAYA IS STILL SOMEWHAT EMOTIONALLY CONFLICTED OVER WHAT JUST WENT DOWN WITH HER ESTRANGED HUMAN ALTERNATE TIMELINE MATESPRIT, SO I HAD TO HELP HER OUT WITH THAT.  
CG: AND  
CG: I REMEMBER THAT DAY TOO.  
TG: uh  
TG: hi  
TG: you seem weirdly the same but also youve barely screamed at me over the chat client at all  
CG: YOU SEEM  
CG: DIFFERENT.  
CG: BUT ALSO THE SAME.  
TG: is that a good thing or a bad thing  
CG: WE’VE BEEN INTERACTING FOR LESS THAN FIVE FUCKING MINUTES, SO HOLD YOUR SHITFUCKING HOOFBEASTS, NOOKMUNCH. I NEED TIME TO COME TO A SOLID CONCLUSION.  
CG: FIRST, THOUGH, ARE YOU PHYSICALLY SAFE? ROSE CLAIMS YOU’RE UNINJURED AND NOT IN ANY CURRENT DANGER OF BECOMING INJURED, BUT IS SHE SAYING THAT SO THAT KANAYA DOESN’T FLIP HER SHIT AND DO SOMETHING DRASTIC OR IS SHE SAYING THAT BECAUSE IT’S TRUE?  
TG: its probably true but at this point its up in the air  
TG: we have a super vague understanding of what the fuck is going on at this point and rose cant get a handle on whatever exact motivations the fishwitch has or what the most fortuiwhatever path would be  
TG: at this point were playing it by ear  
CG: IF ROSE’S SEER POWERS ARE ON THE FRITZ, DOES TEREZI HAVE ANY VALUABLE INSIGHT?  
TG: what no im not asking pyrope  
TG: shes the reason we got stuck here in the first place  
CG: LOOK, AT TIMES THE REASONING BEHIND TEREZI’S ACTIONS CAN BE MORE CONFUSING THAN THE INTRICACIES OF THE IMPERIAL BUREAUCRATIC SYSTEM, ESPECIALLY ANY SERKET-RELATED ACTIONS, BUT IT WOULD BE STUPID NOT TO INVOLVE HER IN THIS CONVERSATION WHEN THE ISSUE IS SO IMPORTANT.  
CG: AND I EXPLAINED THAT WITHOUT A SINGLE INSULT MORE INVOLVED THAN “STUPID,” JUST FOR YOUR TINY LITTLE HUMAN BRAIN, SEE? BECAUSE THIS IS JUST THAT IMPORTANT.  
TG: yeah well we told her about what we knew about the game crashing and she used the information to sell us out  
TG: so im not exactly feeling trusting toward her right now  
CG: . . . YOU ABSOLUTE BULGE-HUMPING SHITSTAIN ON A PIMPLE ON THE UNIVERSE FROG’S BACKSIDE, YOU REALIZE SHE GOT HERSELF TORTURED FOR YOU GUYS, RIGHT?  
TG: wait  
TG: what  
TG: when  
CG: UGH. SIT YOUR ASS DOWN, IF IT’S NOT ALREADY POSITIONED ON A FLAT SURFACE, AND LET ME GIVE YOU AN OVERVIEW OF WHAT WENT DOWN FROM THE PYROPE-AND-SERKET PERSPECTIVE.  
TG: aye aye sir  
TG: just one question though  
TG: when you finish telling me whatever youre going to tell me  
TG: because i am having a bad feeling about this  
TG: dont ask me why but  
TG: i gotta know  
TG: is this going to somehow obligate me to be nice to the spidertroll  
CG: WELL, YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE NICE, PER SE.  
TG: thank jegus christ  
CG: BUT SHE DID SAVE MY LIFE AT ONE POINT.  
TG: fuck

 

* * * *

 

Your name is Vriska Serket and you are standing in front of a tall window, gazing out at the star-speckled darkness. It’s _amazing_ how boring space is. Why do they even have windows in this ship? What’s even the point?  
  
There’s a weak cough behind you and a hoarse voice murmurs, “Approaching warzone-classified territory in twenty-nine minutes and fifty-three seconds. Initiating slowed approach procedures in eight, seven, six…” It’s the helmsman, so you make sure not to turn around. You’re aware that helms are nothing more than troll-shaped pieces of machinery, but this one is still in the newly-installed period and will occasionally do things like whimper in pain or ask why it can’t feel its limbs, and that is just way too fucking creepy.  
  
The words --  )(—ER IMP------ERIOUS COND----ESC-ENSCION [)(IC] ceased trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \-- appear on your screen, so you shut the husktop, toss it into your sylladex, and walk over to where the captain is standing so you can let him know what the newest intel is.  
  
(Two hours ago, you contacted someone in the empress’s mental conditioning division—someone who you are sure was directly involved in altering Terezi’s brain—and asked about “installed features.” She responded enthusiastically, eager to show off her knowledge to an equally strong psychic, and sent you several .pdf files that explain the process in detail. Your fingers itch to open them, but you have duties to fulfill first.)  
  
“What is it?” he asks.  
  
“Turns out the Korsjak reacharound we were going to use as the opening gambit, to splinter the Drineran forces? Not gonna work.”  
  
The captain recoils. “Why not?”  
  
“New intel from a, uh, classified source.”  
  
“A _reliable_ classified source?” He sounds doubtful, and you understand where he’s coming from. You, Terezi, and every strategy expert you conferred with agreed that particular maneuver was the best course of action. It’s a classic move, tested to perfection over thousands of years of interstellar warfare. If the advice to discard it hadn’t come from Rose Lalonde you would be doubting it too.  
  
“As reliable as it gets,” you tell him. “I’ll send out the new battle plan, you prep the ship.”  
  
He raises his voice, shouts “Olmeko!” and in practically 0.2 seconds a blueblood rushes to his side. They confer in whispers and then the blueblood is rushing off again. As he leaves, you notice that his uniform is lined in both blue and violet, and there are two signs embroidered on his chest.  
  
The captain notices you staring. “I have been meaning to ask you where _your_ Second is,” he comments, eyeing you curiously.  
  
“Conditioning period,” you say shortly.  
  
Understanding dawns on his face. “ _Oh_. Not previously trained, then? You requested this one, I take it?”  
  
“Yeah. I did.”  
  
“Shame. That can result in problems, you know—my first Auxiliary was the one I requested, and he had a very disruptive streak of defiance which was frustratingly difficult to stamp out. Of course I sent him to the subjugglators for conditioning as soon as possible, but then he was just so awfully dull and disappointing. Like a limp rag with a seventy-words-per-minute typing speed. Eventually I had him culled and sent in for a proper replacement. Personally, Admiral, I’d suggest doing the same as soon as possible.”  
  
“Not interested," you say, with a subvocal growl on the edge of your words.  
  
He puts up his hands exaggeratedly. “It was only a suggestion. I know they can be rather endearing sometimes, but there’s no point in having one if they’ll only slow you down.”  
  
“Oh, I dunno,” you say. “My Second is pretty good at speeding things up.”

 

* * * *

 

TG: so now leijon is in serious shit  
CG: SERIOUS ENOUGH THAT WE’RE NOT SURE WE CAN GET HER OUT OF IT.  
TG: that sucks  
TG: sorry thats  
TG: kind of untactful i guess but im not great at consolation  
TG: i know where youre coming from there have been times where weve sent out people and they havent come back and we think we have a way to rescue them but its too costly and we dont want more people in danger  
TG: its hard  
CG: YEAH.  
CG: IT’S ALRIGHT.  
CG: NOT THE SITUATION, I MEAN, THE CONSOLING THING. I HAVE KANAYA FOR THAT, AND WE WORK WELL TOGETHER.  
CG: IT HELPS, THOUGH.  
TG: what helps  
CG: HEARING THAT SOMEONE ELSE UNDERSTANDS.  
TG: yeah  
TG: me too  
TG: this helps me too

 

* * * *

 

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and it’s pitifully easy to get a hold of the names of the legislacerators in charge of Nepeta’s trial. One message to the legislaceratorial division that covers the subfleet in which the _Holy Wrath_ is located, and your inbox is flooded with delighted statements and vaguely uncomfortable celebrity worship. Apparently not just does everybody seem to recognize your name from the gossip mags, but they are all immensely proud of your legislacerator training. They trip over themselves in order to assist you in gaining classified information.  
  
You send Sollux the info and even manage to hold an intelligible and snarky conversation, which you cut off as soon as possible without drawing suspicion. The moment his username disappears from your screen, you let the husktop slip the floor and rest your head on your knees as pain flares through your skull and dances down your nerves. It feels as if a thousand insects are crawling over your skin, leaving trails of vicious bites and sending poison through your veins. The room is cold and empty, but sweat still beads on your face and your insides still feel on the verge of combustion.  
  
The scars on your shoulders—Vriska’s sign on your right, the empress’s sign on your left—hurt more than any other part of your body. When you shut your eyes you can trace the exact movements the knife made to etch those scars so deeply and precisely into your flesh, and then you realize… it’s not just your imagination, is it? It’s a memory. They really did make you carve them yourself.  
  
You’ve been working constantly because if you stop for too long, your senses become feverish and blank spots appear in your memory and it’s just like _that dark room with the table and the hulking shapes leaning over you and the awful, awful visions and the Condesce’s cold, perfect smile_. Your fear of that place is etched deeper than scars, deeper than your bones. Those aren't memories you want.

 

* * * *

 

CG: FOR THE LAST FUCKING TIME, MORON, FROZEN WAS AN INCREDIBLY SUBVERSIVE ARTISTIC MASTERPIECE THAT SERIOUSLY CHALLENGED THE PREMISE OF THE HEMOCASTE SYSTEM.  
TG: that same franchise existed on the non apocalyptic earth and let me tell you buddy the only memorable thing about it was the soulsucking marketing campaigns that followed its inexplicable and immense popularity  
TG: i was so happy when the frozen craze went away you have no idea  
TG: that halloween was a nightmare there was a princess elsa costume everywhere you looked  
TG: just thinking about it invites that fucking song to start burning an ice cold tunnel through my inner ear again  
TG: urging to me to release my grip on this mortal coil and let it goooooo  
TG: and olaf the snowman  
TG: olaf the jegusfucking snowman  
TG: i can still see his face staring at me from every shop window  
TG: ive witnessed terrible things karkat  
TG: terrible things  
CG: ON ALTERNIA, THAT MOVIE WAS BANNED WITHIN THREE NIGHTS OF ITS RELEASE.  
CG: THEY BILLED IT AS A CHARMING TALE OF MOIRALLEGIANCE SET IN THE MEDIEVAL PAST, IN WHICH TWO SEADWELLERS NAVIGATE THE COMPLEXITIES OF COURT LIFE TOGETHER, SO IT EVEN RECEIVED HEFTY IMPERIAL FUNDING DURING THE PRODUCTION STAGE.  
CG: THE WRITERS APPARENTLY PAID THE ANIMATORS A FUCKTON OF GOLD TO KEEP QUIET ABOUT THE ACTUAL FOCUS OF THE PLOT--THE SHOCKING STORY OF HOW THE YOUNGER OF THE VIOLETBLOODED MOIRAILS REBELS AGAINST THE HEMOCASTE, REFUSES THE HAND OF HER FELLOW POWERFUL HIGHBLOOD, AND INSTEAD ENGAGES IN AN ILLICIT ROMANCE WITH A RUSTBLOODED ICE WORKER THAT FLIPS FROM BLACK TO PALE TO ASH TO RED AND BACK AGAIN MULTIPLE TIMES THROUGHOUT THE COURSE OF THE NARRATIVE.  
TG: seriously  
CG: THE TENSION CULMINATES IN THE CHARMING MOIRAILS JOINING FORCES TO ASSIST THE RUSTBLOOD, THWART THE JILTED HIGHBLOOD’S DASTARDLY PLAN TO TAKE OVER THEIR HOMELAND, AND THEN WELCOME THE RUSTBLOOD INTO THEIR COURT AS AN EQUAL, IN A DRAMATIC GESTURE THAT AFFIRMS THE POWER OF LOVE OVER THE INJUSTICE OF THE CASTE SYSTEM AND SERVES AS A GIANT UPRAISED MIDDLE GRASPING DIGIT TO EVERY PIECE OF PROPAGANDA THE EMPIRE HAS EVER TRIED TO SHOVE DOWN OUR UNWILLING THROATS.  
TG: holy shit  
TG: and this comes with zero overzealous marketing campaigns right  
CG: THE ONLY OVERZEALOUS PART IS THE PART WHERE THE GRAND HIGHBLOOD DECLARED IT HERESY AND THE CONDESCE ANNOUNCED THAT ANYONE IN POSSESSION OF THE FILM WOULD BE DECLARED A TRAITOR TO THE EMPIRE AND PAINFULLY CULLED.  
TG: thats some sicknasty shit bro  
TG: but youre like a daring revolutionary or whatever too  
TG: so what sort of shenanigans do you guys get up to  
CG: IT STARTED OFF WITH ME CONVINCING THE CULT TO HELP SAVE A FEW OF OUR FRIENDS, ESPECIALLY AFTER KANAYA GOT CULLED FOR REFUSING TO SPEND THE REST OF HER NATURAL LIFE CARING FOR THE MOTHERGRUB UNDERGROUND WITHOUT A SINGLE WHIFF OF FRESH AIR. I WAS PRETTY TORN UP AND DIDN’T REALIZE SHE’D GONE RAINBOWDRINKER UNTIL A FEW PERIGEES LATER, SO I WAS PRETTY FOCUSED ON NOT LETTING IT HAPPEN AGAIN. AFTER THAT IT… ESCALATED FROM THERE.  
CG: AND WE’RE NOT REVOLUTIONARIES. WE’RE NOT STUPID. JEGUS, I… CAN KIND OF UNDERSTAND WHY THIS IS HARD TO GET FROM THE HUMAN PERSPECTIVE SINCE YOUR KIND HAVE ALWAYS HAD VARIOUS RULERS IN CHARGE OF VARIOUS STATES, BUT THE CONDESCE UNIFIED THE EMPIRE HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO. WE’VE HAD SPACE TRAVEL FOR OVER SEVEN THOUSAND YEARS. THE EMPRESS RULES AND SHE ALWAYS WILL RULE. CHALLENGING THE EMPRESS’S RULE ISN’T TREACHERY OR HERESY OR EVEN HEROIC SUICIDE, IT’S JUST *STUPID*. IT’S NOT A THING THAT COULD EVER WORK IN ANY UNIVERSE.  
CG: WE’RE NOT REVOLUTIONARIES. WE’RE JUST AWARE THAT WE’RE SLATED FOR CULLING ANYWAY, SO WE FIGURE WE MIGHT AS WELL TRY TO MAKE OTHER PEOPLE’S LIVES SUCK A LITTLE LESS.  
TG: very noble sounding good job vantas  
TG: do you give that speech to all the new recruits  
CG: I MAY HAVE PARAPHRASED IT FROM SOMETHING KANAYA WROTE.  
TG: i mean it did sound legit noble and all that but it didnt have enough swearing in it to sound like an official vantas pronouncement (tm)  
CG: WE SHOULD PROBABLY FIND A BETTER CONVERSATION TOPIC THAN THE MOVIE FROZEN AND CURRENTLY IRRELEVANT SUFFERIST MANIFESTOES, BEFORE THE READERS GET BORED AND FRUSTRATED AND DECIDE TO READ A DIFFERENT FANFIC.  
TG: dude you were making perfect sense half a minute ago why are you suddenly bringing the sense counter so low its approaching zero at high speed  
TG: ding ding congrats youve officially begun making negative sense  
TG: your medal will be delivered to your door with a generous helping of  
TG: sorry id continue my exposition on how little sense you are making if i had the choice but theres a blinking thing from one of the other programs on the computer and  
TG: oh great its alien skype and the username is admiralgrandstander and its in trademark vriska blue wow this day just gets better and better doesnt it  
TG: rose is the negotiator here she can handle this clusterfuck  
TG: see you karkat  
   
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased trolling [redacted] [CG] \--

 

* * * *

 

You are Vriska Serket and you are under heavy fire. This is, in fact, the _least_ of your problems—the helmsman is evading the nuclear bursts with expert precision and Captain Nijeia is at work coordinating with nearby ships to enact and update a difficult series of maneuvers in accordance with the state of the battlefield, so you're probably fine on that account. No, your problem is this:

The Drinerus are so tough to defeat because their intelligence is near-troll-like in a way that no other alien species they’ve encountered has been. (The only exception would be the humans, whose biology and brain architecture is virtually identical to trollkind.) They can do things like hack your transmissions (until someone figured it out and upped their encryption techniques), salvage the ships they’ve shot out of the sky (until someone added a self-destruct mechanism), and study your weaponry and modify theirs to match (they’ve got such a gap to overcome that it should still be easy to stamp them out, but they’re damn hard to kill). Fighting this kind of enemy is not something the Alternian Fleet is used to doing, and by now they know enough about your army’s strategies that despite being hopelessly outnumbered, they can anticipate and beat anything you throw at them.  
  
Your solution is to abandon every formulaic strategy you’ve ever learned, strike suddenly and in an unexpected manner, and change your plan along the way. And with the hoard of luck tingling up and down your spinal column, it might just work.  
  
You’re in the communications center. A three-dimensional holographic model of the battlefield—the binary solar system that analysts have determined is most likely the heart of the Drinerus’ operations—takes up most of the space. Along the walls, one screen on the wall shows the Condesce’s luxurious personal quarters, one screen is blurry but is otherwise connecting perfectly fine to the husktop Terezi delivered to the humans several hours ago, and the final screen connects to—  
  
“We may have broken through the first line of defense with more ease than expected, but this current barrage is coming down harder than the Fleet has experienced in the past,” Terezi is saying urgently. “I know it looks as if they’re concentrating their forces around that area, but it doesn’t quite match their defensive patterns in the past. That’s because they can tell something is off here, and they’re trying to lead you off the scent! If you send a division in that direction—”  
  
Rose cuts her off. “The most fortuitous path is to continue in the manner we have already outlined. That is undisputable. I have no idea why you are trying to argue with that.”  
  
“That’s not what I’m saying here,” Terezi insists. You wrench your gaze away from watching the battlefield change in real time so that you can get a good look at her: she looks exhausted, hunched over as if in pain, but at the same time there is a jittery aliveness to her expression that you haven’t seen in a long while. Her grasping appendages are trembling, and you can’t tell if it’s from sickness or excitement. “Of course it would be ridiculous to deviate from the plan, but you have to admit that it’s a vague plan, and in order to maximize efficiency and minimize casualties I have determined that the best choice would be to create a diversion. The plan will still go ahead, but—”  
  
“I’ll send the diversionary party,” you say, typing a lightning-fast message to the captain. As the SENT notification appears, you gather the knot of luck pulsing below your sternum and send it surging outward, the words _let it work, let it work_ repeating over and over in your thoughts.

 

* * * *

 

You are Terezi Pyrope, and your mind burns. Your neurons flit with jittery speed, your choices branch out before you in infinite pathways of green light. You feel the presence of others, and their choices twist and meld with yours like thunder is to lightning. You haven’t used your powers since the Game, and it’s like waking from a coma.  
  
There is still pain tugging at your limbs and the urge to obey struggling against the forces igniting under your skin, but it’s negligible. Unimportant. That inescapable dread slinks like a wounded animal to the back of your consciousness, and in its place is only _you._  
  
Unhindered, unafraid.

 

* * * *

 

You are Vriska Serket, and your forces have just begun bombarding the heart of Drineran territory.  
  
The Alternian Empire has been grappling with the Drinerus for six and a half sweeps. In all that time, no one else has even gotten _close._  
  
From her screen the Condesce is grinning with all her needle-sharp teeth.

 

* * * *

 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began trolling [redacted] [CG] \--  
  
TG: i wonder if the poor alien fuckers know theyre screwed the way we did  
TG: do they do that thing where they look up at the sky and think  
TG: oh shit  
TG: if there is a divine entity ruling our lives then it sure as hell aint on our side  
TG: the condesce sent us reports of the withdrawal from earthen territory and rose and dirk got together every ounce of energy and power they had and they said she was telling the truth  
TG: she really did withdraw from earth  
TG: its so flippant too because none of it matters to her  
TG: there wasnt anything on earth she wanted other than a challenge  
TG: and us  
TG: she killed all those people without a thought because she remembered the players from the other universe and she was waiting for us to appear  
TG: she already killed the dave and rose from the alpha universe once and she wanted to do it over again  
TG: she wasnt bitter or angry or frustrated  
TG: she was just bored  
TG: it makes me so fucking angry karkat and i dont want to go on and on about it with you because our lives are fucked up enough without dwelling on it and besides ive got roxy for that sort of thing  
TG: god its good that youre not at the computer right now because im still a coward and i wouldnt be saying this if you were  
TG: but im glad youre alive and not dead and im glad i can talk to you and im glad youve gone through all the same shit as me  
TG: if not the same variety of shit then at least equally awful shit  
TG: even though thats selfish and i should probably wish you had a nice life where you never had to worry about dying horribly  
TG: but you dont and im so glad  
TG: im so fucking glad  
  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased trolling [redacted] [CG] \--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter title is paraphrased from these two lines from "the old astronomer":  
>   
>  _I can dimly comprehend it, — that I might have been more kind,_  
>  _Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind._  
>   
>  all the davekats........ *sheds single tear*  
>   
> also, if anyone has any constructive criticism, give it to me! i'm always interested in improving.  
> 


	13. save your eyes for sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here you go!! this chapter gave me a lot of trouble, but it turned out alright, i think.
> 
> WARNINGS: not... that many? other than the usual ones in the tags, at least? this chapter is actually relatively light compared to the others. (but, like. not by much.)

AG: So 8y using your Mind p8wers, you can stave off the mental c8nditi8ning?  
GC: 1N 4 ROUND4BOUT W4Y Y3S  
GC: STR4NG3LY 3NOUGH 1TS H4RD TO F33L 1RR4T1ON4L WORRY OV3R TH3 CONS3QU3NC3S OF D1SOB3Y1NG TH3 3MP1R3 WH3N YOU H4V3 4 POW3R TH4T L3TS YOU F33L R4T1ON4L WORRY 4BOUT 4LL POSS1BL3 CONS3QU3NC3S 1N P4R4DOX SP4C3  
GC: 4ND TH3 P41N STOPS M4TT3R1NG B3C4US3 YOUR 3NT1R3 TH1NKP4N 1S ON F1R3 W1TH 4LL OF R34L1TY  
GC: 1 N3V3R H4D TH1S L3V3L OF M4ST3RY OV3R 1T 1N TH3 G4M3  
GC: 1S TH1S WH4T GODT13R F33LS L1K3  
AG: Okay, so.  
AG: Doooooooon’t get cocky, 8ut.  
AG: That is, actually, what g8dtier feels like.  
AG: And I have zero difficulty 8elieving that your other self decided to give this version of y8urself g8dtier p8wers, so.  
GC: !!!  
GC: HOLY SH1T  
GC: VR1SK4  
GC: TH3 4DM1R4LS S3COND 3M3RG3S FROM TH3 CROWD  
GC: H3R OCUL4R SH4D3S GL1NT L1K3 H3R3SY 4ND S3CR3TS  
GC: 4 SLOW 4ND T3RR1BL3 SM1L3 SPR34DS 4CROSS H3R F4C3  
GC: TH3 MURD3R3R SHR1NKS B4CK 1N HORROR. 1T S33M3D TH4T NO ON3 WOULD SN1FF OUT H1S D4ST4RDLY D33DS, BUT H3 1S OUT OF LUCK!  
GC: FOR PYROP3S SL3ND3R FR4M3 CONC34LS POW3R B3YOND R3CKON1NG  
GC: TH1S 4PP4R3NTLY UN4SSUM1NG TROLL C4N D1SC3RN 4NY SOLUT1ON, SOLV3 4NY MYST3RY  
GC: TH3 POW3R OF UN1V3RS4L CR34T1ON L13S DORM4NT 1N H3R GR4SP1NG 4PP3ND4G3S  
GC: 4ND MOST F34RSOM3 OF 4LL  
GC: H3R FURY OV3R TH3 UNJUST MURD3R OF H3R P4L3M4T3 W1LL FORM 1NTO 4 SH4RP BL4D3  
GC: OF ***JUST1C3***  
AG: W8, I’m DEAD in this scenario? What the fuck????????  
GC: 1T 1S FOR OPT1M4L DR4M4  
AG: I’m not dying for the sake of optimal drama!  
GC: NO ON3 C4R3S VR1SK4  
GC: TH3 4UD13NC3 ONLY C4R3S 4BOUT M3  
GC: M3 4ND MY 3P1C QU3ST FOR JUST1C3  
AG: Oooooooo........ kaaaayyyy? I’m glad y8u’re happy, I guess????????  
GC: 1TS PR3TTY GR34T  
GC: 1 F33L SL1GHTLY L3SS POW3RL3SS 4S 1 GO 4BOUT MY D41LY BUS1N3SS OF T3LL1NG TH3 COND3SC3 HOW TO W4G3 W4R 4ND 3XPL41N1NG TO TH3 CH13F L3G1SL4C3R4TOR14L D1R3CTOR OF TH3 3MP1R3 WHY H3 SHOULD 3XCUS3 4 F3W UN4UTHOR1Z3D CULL ORD3RS  
GC: 4DM1TT3DLY 1T 4LL 4DDS UP TO P4P3RWORK  
GC: BUT 1 F33L V3RY COOL WH1L3 1 DO 1T  
GC: HOW3V3R TH3R3 1S 4 SL1GHT PROBL3M  
AG: Which is?  
GC: 1 C4NT DO 1T FOR LONG OR 1 P4SS OUT FROM 3XH4UST1ON  
GC: SO MY SPONG3 ONLY F33LS CL34R FOR 4 F3W M1NUT3S 4ND TH3N 1TS B4CK TO T3RROR T1M3 >:[  
AG: Oh.  
AG: Yeah.  
AG: So earlier I mentioned a thing.  
GC: 4 TH1NG  
GC: D1D YOU KNOW TH4T VAGU3 WORD1NG H4S 4 SL1GHT FRU1TY T4ST3  
AG: A8out removing the conditioning via reverse-engineering. That thing.  
GC: OH  
GC: TH4T  
GC: TH1NG  
AG: I’ve d8ne my research. I kn8w how to do it. It’ll w8rk.  
GC: 1M NOT SUR3  
GC: 1TS NOT  
GC: 1T M1GHT NOT B3 4DV1S4BL3  
AG: Terezi, if we d8n’t do it as soon as you ship out to my military outp8st, the effects will 8e permanent.  
AG: You can sl8w it d8wn with your Mind p8wers, 8ut it won’t work forever.  
GC: 1M SO SC4R3D  
AG: Hey, it’s gonna 8e okay! I’m the 8est at this sort of thing, and I’ve got a fuckton of luck ready for it. Most of it’s going t8ward the war eff8rt, 8ut I’ve been hoarding enough for this.  
GC: 1 KNOW BUT 1T DO3SNT H3LP  
AG: Just trust me. Would I lie to you?  
GC: DO YOU R34LLY W4NT M3 TO 4NSW3R TH4T  
AG: ........ yeah, I walked into that. 8ut I w8uldn’t lie a8out this.  
AG: Promise.

 

* * * *

  
GC: SO YOUR3 S4Y1NG N3P3T4S TR14L D4T3 JUST GOT MOV3D B4CK  
GC: FOR MYST3R1OUS R34SONS  
TA: accordiing two the corre2pondence2 iive managed two iintercept.  
TA: the order2 are comiing from hiigher up than the guy2 who2e IIDs iive got acce22 two.  
TA: KN 2ay2 iit2 good new2 becau2e iit giive2 u2 tiime two prepare for an extractiion.  
TA: 2he2 fuckiing wrong. iit2 awful new2. iit mean2 NP and EQ wiill be under heavy guard.  
TA: whiich mean2 ii have two change our plan2 a-fuckiing-gaiin, and every tiime ii do that our chance2 of 2ucce22 go down exponentiially.  
GC: THAT 1S C3RT41NLY NOT OPT1M4L  
TA: but waiit. iit get2 wor2e.  
TA: iit al2o mean2 workiing off plan2 EQ had half fiinii2hed iin hi2 hard driive before he got iimpri2oned. and iim not exactly a hardware guy, let alone a biiorobotiicii2t, iif you havent notiiced.  
GC: W41T  
GC: WH4T 3X4CTLY 4R3 YOU TRY1NG TO BU1LD  
TA: look, when ii 2aiid they were under heavy guard ii wa2nt fuckiing around.  
GC: 4SK1NG TH3 BL1ND G1RL TO “LOOK”  
GC: HOW C4LLOUS  
TA: that joke2 2topped beiing funny two 2weep2 ago.  
GC: WOW RUD3  
TA: *a2 ii wa2 2ayiing*,  
TA: the 2ecuriity were dealiing wiith here ii2 a2 tiight a2 iit get2. iim talkiing helmlocked.  
GC: 1 H4V3 NO 1D34 WH4T TH4T M34NS  
GC: 4ND YOU KN3W TH4T 1 WOULD H4V3 NO 1D34 WH4T TH4T M34NS WH3N YOU S41D 1T  
GC: SO FUCK YOU FOR TH4T  
TA: not my fault your pathetiic lack of ba2iic tech knowledge ii2 prediictable, TZ.  
TA: helmlocked 2ecuriity 2y2tem2 cant be operated manually or maniipulated from out2iide, at lea2t iin any way ii know about. that mean2 you cant ju2t 2wiipe your card and open a door, you have two waiit untiil the helm2troll recogniize2 your genetiic 2iignature through the 2hip 2en2ors and open2 iit for you.  
GC: 1SNT TH4T  
GC: 1 DONT KNOW  
GC: PROC3SS1NG POW3R TH4TS SUPPOS3D TO B3 GO1NG TOW4RD NOT FLY1NG 1NTO N34RBY BL4CK HOL3S  
TA: yeah, you need a really good helm2troll for iit two work. that2 why theyre 2o rare.  
TA: there2 only a few 2hip2 iin the fleet that u2e them. the battle2hip conde2cen2iion i2 one of them. NP and EQ ju2t got tran2ferred to the mo2t 2ecure holdiing cell faciiliity iin the empiire, the one that hold2 all the hiigh priioriity ca2e2, whiich ii2 another.  
TA: the thiing about helmlocked 2y2tem2 ii2 ii cant hack them remotely, whiich ii2 how hackiing *work2*, unle22 ii wa2 liiterally another helm2man.  
TA: 2o that2 a huge clu2terfuck worthy of KK-level 2weariing riight there.  
GC: Y3T YOUV3 4LR34DY 1ND1C4T3D TH4T YOU DO H4V3 SOM3 PL4N  
TA: ii do.  
GC: W3LL >:?  
TA: ehh.  
TA: ii dont want thii2 2omehow gettiing back two KK. iit2 2omewhat dangerou2 and iif he hear2 about iit hell do that thiing where he goe2 all worryiing at you untiil you giive iin and choo2e the 2oft optiion.  
GC: F1N3 1 WONT T3LL K4RKL3S  
TA: yeah, but thiing2 have a way of gettiing back wto hiim 2omehow. ii have no fuckiing clue how he doe2 iit, but iit happen2.  
GC: 1 H4V3 4LW4YS SUSP3CT3D K4N4Y4  
GC: R3G4RDL3SS 1 ST1LL TH1NK YOU SHOULD T3LL M3 B3FOR3 YOU GO 4ND DO SOM3TH1NG “2omewhat dangerou2”  
TA: how about iin2tead you ju2t get VK two lend me 2ome luck and we 2top talkiing about iit altogether.  
GC: WH4T DO YOU N33D 1T FOR  
TA: fuckiing 2hiit, weve been over thii2 two miilliion fuckiing tiime2 already. iim not telliing, becau2e of KK.  
GC: HMM 1S TH4T 4 F4LS3HOOD 1 SN1FF  
GC: WHY Y3S 1 TH1NK 1T 1S  
GC: YOUR3 NOT T3LL1NG B3C4US3 YOU TH1NK 1 WOULDNT L1K3 1T 31TH3R  
TA: dont be fuckiing riidiiculou2, TZ. all ii need ii2 2ome luck. your palemate ha2 a 2hiitton of iit hoarded up, iit 2houldnt be two hard of a reque2t.  
GC: R3QU3ST D3N13D M1ST3R Y3LLOW SOD4  
GC: SH3 C4NT JU2T G1FT WR4P 1T 4ND SHOV3 1T THROUGH YOUR M41L SLOT YOU DUMMY  
GC: SH3 H4S TO US3 1T TO B3N3F1T H3RS3LF 4T TH3 B3ST MOM3NT DUR1NG 4 H1GHLY R1SKY OR P4RT1CUL4RLY D4R1NG 3NT3RPR1S3  
GC: H4V3NT YOU 3V3R H34RD TH3 PHR4S3 “ON3 L4ST D3SP3R4T3 ROLL OF TH3 D1C3”  
TA: but KN 2aiid R2 2aiid VK u2ed luck to help her army agaiin2t the driineru2.  
GC: NO SH3 D1DNT  
GC: SH3 US3D HO4RD3D LUCK TO M4K3 H3R T4CT1C4L D3C1S1ONS LUCK13R TH4N TH3 T4CT1C4L D3C1S1ONS OF TH3 3N3MY H1GH COMM4ND  
GC: LONG STORY SHORT SH3 C4NT H3LP UNL3SS YOU W4NT H3R TO DO SOM3TH1NG V3RY SP3C1F1C 4ND P1VOT4L TO YOUR MYST3R1OUS PL4N  
GC: WH1CH SH3 C4NT DO UNL3SS SH3 KNOWS WH4T TH3 FUCK YOUR3 T4LK1NG 4BOUT  
TA: 2hiit.  
TA: iill get back to you on that.

 

* * * *

 

GA: Sollux Is Working On A Plan To Free Nepeta  
GA: I Am Unclear On The Specifics And He Has Expressed Some Concerns About Materials But He Seems To Know What Hes Doing And I Feel That It Is Achievable  
TT: That is heartening. I just hope your identities not discovered in the process of any ridiculously brave shenanigans.  
TT: Or are the Condesce’s authorities already aware of your involvement with the Cult of the Signless?  
GA: They Still Think I Died On The Homeworld  
TT: Oh? Was that a plot you engineered yourself, or that of a previous Cult leader?  
GA: Neither Really  
GA: I Received A Notice That Instead Of Reporting To The Conscription Fields I Would Report To The Caverns  
GA: I Had No Intention Of Spending My Life Below Ground  
GA: Forbidden Contact With Hatefriends And Forbidden Quadrants Of Any Kind  
GA: I Believed That With My Knowledge Of The Desert I Could Outrun The Culling Drones  
TT: I’ve run from a few of them in my lifetime.  
TT: Though I understand that the models used for internal security are endowed with greater technology and are somewhat harder to extinguish than the models used for external conquest.  
GA: That Part Of My Plan Succeeded  
GA: But I Underestimated The Vengefulness Of Alternian Civil Security  
TT: What does Alternian civil security consists of? Other than the drones, I mean. I’ve heard of the legislacerators from Terezi, but other than that all I know of is the military component. Is there a police force of any kind?  
GA: Civil Security Is Smaller And Holds Less Cultural Capital Than The Military But It Definitely Exists  
GA: The Legislacerators Handle Cases Of Greater Relative Importance While Lesser Enforcers Handle Day To Day Law Matters Similarly To A Police Force  
GA: If You Follow The Ranks As High As Possible You See That Its Ultimately Controlled By The Civilian Senate  
TT: A lawmaking body of some kind?  
GA: Possibly  
GA: No One Is Very Sure What The Senate Does But It Is Generally Understood That They Keep The Empire Running So That We Can All Continue Conquering And Making War And All The Expensive Frivolity The Empress Fancies  
GA: They Also Punish Insurgents  
GA: Very Harshly  
TT: But you escaped.  
GA: I Did Not  
GA: Didnt You Wonder Why I Am Still A Rainbowdrinker When The Game Hasnt Happened  
TT:  
TT: …ah.  
GA: My Desert Dwelling Was Discovered And I Encountered A Single Extremely Skilled Assailant  
GA: The Troll Was Masked In Heavy But Tasteless Armor To Ward Off The Sun So I Never Learned Their Identity  
GA: I Like To Think That In Melee Combat I Would Have Won  
GA: But My Lipstick Was Useless Against A Sniper  
GA: My Death Was Painful But Not Drawn Out  
GA: The Next Thing I Knew A Cultist In A Cloak Was Leaning Over Me And Dripping Blood Onto My Face  
GA: Apparently Theyd Been Watching For Someone Of My Ancestry To Reach Ascension Age  
TT: A fairy godmother. How lucky.  
TT: Please try not to die again this time around.  
GA: Ill Do My Best  
GA: But  
GA: No Promises  
TT: Kanaya, please. Dying heroically isn’t nearly as attractive as it sounds in theory. Trust me. I’ve done it. It hurts a lot and you wish you had done the cowardly thing and stayed alive.  
TT: I’m tired of everyone I love being dead or in the process of dying. I want to live.  
GA: Its My Fault That Nepeta And Equius Are In This Situation And Ill Do What It Takes To Get Them Out  
TT: Nepeta is in this situation because she wanted to eviscerate Gamzee out of revenge, an impulse that I can relate to. In no way, shape or form is that your fault.  
GA: The Trial Is High Profile Because They Suspect That The Cult Is Involved  
GA: Karkat And I Together *Are* The Cult  
GA: Maybe Its Not Our Fault But Its Our Responsibility  
TT: Listen to yourself. You just repeated the same argument in a slightly rephrased manner! That makes no sense!  
TT: I did not swear fealty for all of my unending and eternal life to an alien fish tyrant so that the people I care for could take unnecessary risks that put them in mortal danger.  
GA: I Thought You Did It So That What Remains Of The Human Race Would Be Left To Mourn And Rebuild In Peace  
TT: That too. But I’m also rather selfish. I prefer my friends and family without gaping wounds or ticking paradox clocks hanging over their heads.  
GA: Heres This For Friends And Family  
GA: Once Were Done Saving Nepeta And Equius Well Come For You  
GA: For All Four Of You  
GA: If Solluxs Plan Works The Empire Will Be In Such An Uproar That It Will Be The Perfect Time To Make A Second Escape Attempt  
TT: Look, I don’t know what kind of plan Sollux has—my seer abilities are giving me nothing but jumbled images—but I have a distinct feeling that breaking someone out of the Holy Wrath, however difficult it may be, is a very different matter than breaking someone out of the Battleship Condescension.  
TT: This is where our story ends. We made a choice. Let’s be content with it.  
GA: I Dont Want To Be Content With It  
GA: I Already Used My Second Chance  
GA: Rose My Nights Are Numbered And I Want To See You Again  
GA: We May Not Be Able To Rescue Nepeta And Equius But If We Do I Will Come For You Next  
TT: What?  
TT: Kanaya, no. You can’t.  
TT: It’s too dangerous.  
GA: Dont Sit There And Tell Me That You Are Content With Remaining Enslaved To The Condesce For The Rest Of Your Existence  
TT: I’m not, alright? I’m not! But I can’t help that. This is it, Kanaya! We’re tired of fighting!  
TT: We’ve been killing and trying not to be killed for ten years, love. We’re done. It may be imperfect, but at least we know that Earth will survive.  
TT: I never thought that I would get a chance to speak to you again, my love. This moment is enough to make me grateful for what I have.  
GA: Fuck You  
GA: Since When Are You Grateful For Anything  
GA: You Wouldnt Know Gracious If It Hit You In The Head With A Pail  
GA: You Think Youre So Mature And Wise But Youre Not  
GA: Youre Giving Up  
GA: But I Wont  
GA: Fine You Know What  
GA: This I Will Swear On The Sign Of The Iron Heretic  
GA: I Will Not Die  
GA: I Will Bring Nepeta Back Home  
GA: And Then I Will Come For You  
GA: If I Have To Duel The Condesce Myself To Do It

 

* * * *

 

You are Terezi Pyrope, and you have an interview with the empress’s PR department. You spend an extra minute with the wardrobifier, wrap your noose neatly around your waist, and practice a fake, teeth-filled smile that you hope unnerves the PR trolls as much as possible.  
  
The aide that comes to collect you leads you past a waiting block, through several hallways and into a small space filled with glittery tapestries and sequin-covered cushion stubs. You pause a moment, sniffing in a taken-aback manner, before you mentally shrug and decide not to worry about it. Seadweller decor makes little sense to you, but you also choose your upholstery based on a thorough lick-test, so you doubt you are in a place to judge.  
  
A lifestyle journalextortionist lies in wait, armed with a portable audio recording device and sitting on a cushion stub in the center. “Hhhello there!” he chirps. “It’s absolutely _fantastic_ to see you again.”  
  
What? You’ve never met—oh shit it’s _him,_ isn’t it. The assistant head of the propaganda division who interrupted your jam session to lecture Vriska about deleting his emails. With the douchey haircut and the thick bottlecap lenses. You make a querying noise at the back of your throat (precisely how did he come to the conclusion that this is a “fantastic” occasion?) but it’s too late, he’s already getting up to shut the door behind you. “We hhhave _so_ much to talk about. Your position is really hhhhistoric, did you know that? The entire empire is eager to hhear from you.”  
  
“The entire empire,” you say. “Really.”  
  
“Of course they do. Why, I bet there isn’t a greenie out there that wouldn’t give their left hhhorn to be in your spot right now.”  
  
“Really,” you repeat. You’d throw in that and half your other appendages if it would get you out of this spot right now.  
  
“Yes, really. Now, is there any place you want to start? Any counsel for aspiring Seconds out there? Any particular tidbits the public just hhhhhas to know?”  
  
“I’d remind them to not spread insurgent rhetoric or commit mutinous acts,” you say, thinking of the paperwork piling up in your inbox. “Their commanding officers have to execute them publicly without trial, and then I have to fill out forms in triplicate.”  
  
“Obeying your empire, always a good moral for the little grubs. Anything else spring to mind…?”  
  
You shrug.  
  
His face twitches a little, but he nods. “Okay then! Now, you have legislaceratorial training, and a little flapbeast told me that your appointment was quite the pleasant surprise. What was that like?”  
  
You frown. “Where are you gathering this information?”  
  
“Please just answer the question,” he says. “Everyone is waiting to hhear from you!”  
  
“Well, ‘pleasant’ is somewhat of an incorrect statement,” you say, and then flinch as a throb of pain bounces off the inside of your skull. “But I’ve—uh—settled in. It’s been great. Definitely.” Oh well. You may be good at sniffing out lies, but you were never very good at producing them yourself.  
  
“Oh, I see. Moving on,” says your interviewer. He pulls out a palmhusk and scrolls down a document, muttering to himself, before captchaloguing it and giving you a strained smile. “Let’s talk about the admiral. What is she like without the uniform? What can you tell us that no one else can?”  
  
“Can’t you just write in what you want me to say?” you try. “That’s what you do anyway.”  
  
He takes a deep breath. He uses a digit to hit a switch on the recording device, sets it aside, and levels a cold glare in your direction. “I _will_ report your uncooperativeness to your superior officer.”  
  
Perhaps you should be more worried about that threat, considering he has the ear of the Condesce and you are fucking terrified of the Condesce, but the idea of Vriska listening with a straight face to him “report your uncooperativeness” fails to register as anything other than amusing. “Will you?” you say, showing your teeth.  
  
“I most certainly will,” he says, as if that somehow settles the matter.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Another, more suspicious glare. You keep smiling.  
  
After a long moment of silence, he switches back to happy mode with disconcerting speed. He turns on the device. “I do hhave a few backup questions in case we ran short on time. And hhhere we are! So. Rumor hhas it that if this campaign goes well, her magnificent hhharshness will consider granting the admiral the Touch of Life, and by ‘rumor hhas it’ I mean that not two hours ago I came out of meeting where her condescension _strongly_ hhhinted a promotion in the near future. What do you hhave to say to that?”  
  
You’re startled out of a snarky answer. The idea has occurred to you, but always a distant possibility for the far future, not something that might actually happen. Now that you think about it, Vriska’s already godtier. You’re not sure what the Touch would do to her. It provides longevity, not immortality, but you don’t know if she’s even capable of dying of old age in the first place. Quick, quick, you’ve got to say something— “It would be an honor. She certainly deserves it. And I have no doubt that the Drinerus campaign will be successful.” _At least not if I have anything to do with it,_ you think.  
  
“As am I, as am I,” he agrees. “But of course, this particular honor would mean that Admiral Serket would continue to serve honorably long after your death! What advice would you give to hher next Chief Auxiliary?”  
  
“You make her sound like a used combustion mobile,” you say. Then you flinch, realization setting: if you really are godtier through inexplicable retcon shenanigans, then you won’t be dying soon either, will you…?  
  
“Ah. Charming lowblood terminologies,” says the journalextortionist, which makes you hate him just a bit more. “Alright, last question. If you could—”  
  
The door bangs open. You’re startled to your feet, blade at the ready.  
  
An aide is saying nervously, “Just a moment sir, he’s currently in a meeting but I’m sure that— _sir_ —” Except the intruder is ignoring them and pushing his way to the center of the block. There’s the clanking of steel-toed boots against the floor and a strangely familiar smell—  
  
No.  
  
“I thought we scheduled our meeting for a hhhalf an hour from now?” says the assistant head of the propaganda division, standing up.  
  
“Yeah, except I can’t fuckin’ make that, ‘cause I’m a fuckin’ busy troll,” snaps Eridan Ampora. “So we’ll have that conversation right coddamn now, an’…”  
  
He trails off.  
  
He’s staring right at you. Your flap is wide with shock. His face is going through an amusingly elaborate sequence of expressions. He’s recognizable as the mopey six-sweep-old that Vriska used to FLARP with, but he’s also worryingly different. For one thing, his fins are covered in gold piercings and his chitin is strikingly dark in a way that most trolls only dream of achieving. For another thing, he’s _extremely_ tall for a seadweller, which means his chin is over a foot higher than the tips of your horns, and that does not go over well with your nerves.  
  
“Fancy meeting you here,” you choke out.  
  
That seems to jolt him back into composure. “Look what the meowbeast dragged in,” he says, face contorting into a sneer. “Cerulean Serket’s chlorine-blood conciliatory hire.”  
  
You give him your nastiest, most threatening smile. Your cane is still unsheathed.  
  
“Now, now,” says the propaganda guy patronizingly. “The job of an Auxiliary is essential to workings of the military.”  
  
“So is engine oil,” he says, fins twitching in irritation. He makes a dismissive hand motion at you. “Now scurry off, I have business to conduct with her condescension’s Public Relations team.”  
  
You’ve been waved away by seadwellers before, so this shouldn’t be getting under your skin the way it is (and actually, with your conditioning it shouldn’t be getting under your skin at all). But you also have a hard time taking this from Ampora when you know that somewhere on your grubdrive is the misspelled wizard fiction Sollux spirited from his husktop when he was four and a half. “You know what?” you say. “You can take your ‘business to conduct’ and shove—”  
  
“Although,” says Eridan, frowning as if he just had a thought. “Her condescension did mention that Admiral Serket had some advice for quellin’ the latest rash a' rebellion. In that case, wait outside. I’ll have a message for you to pass on.”  
  
With that, he sets you aside. He literally grabs you by the lapels—you screech in surprise—and pushes you away from him, releasing suddenly so you stumble through the open door. It slams behind you.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so i finally made a [sideblog](http://unintelligible-screaming.tumblr.com) for writing stuff! i only just started doing stuff with it, but i've been posting non-spoilery snippets for upcoming chapters and the songs i listen to while writing and all that. there's also some other random stuff on there, because i'm a disorganized mess, but there's a link for solely writing-related posts.
> 
> a while ago, someone asked what's up with the poem choices for the titles. 
> 
> i'll be honest, i like melodramatic angsty poetry fic titles and let's be real here, the cool dramatic imagery was a big reason for choosing "tyger, tyger" and "the old astronomer" for act I and II. but there was also some thinking that went into it, i promise!
> 
> let's start with "tyger, tyger." if you really want to know i suggest reading the wikipedia article or something that can explain it better, but the most interesting thing about "tyger, tyger" is duality and the concept of humanity having a dual nature. when william blake wrote it, it was a companion piece to another poem, "the lamb," which was about innocence, while "tyger, tyger" was about experience/lack of innocence/the natural fierceness that is a part of being human. 
> 
> we're supposed to think that being innocent and good is better, but guess which poem gets quoted over and over again? the one about being harsh and ferocious and beautiful. that's because we like to read about losing innocence more than we like to read about being innocent — it's not nice or happy, but it's way more interesting. and this fic, uhhh, it's definitely not nice or happy, except for a few bits here and there where vriska and terezi just made dumb jokes at each other. things aren't necessarily better bc they're dark, and stories about friendship and innocence that have happy endings are often severely underrated, but the stuff that i like writing will always fall under the "tyger, tyger" category, not "the lamb."
> 
> duality and loss of innocence is also really important for vriska and terezi, whose characters and whose relationship dynamic drives the plot. they're both struggling with the two lives they've lived, during the game and in this new universe that terezi fabricated through retcon shenanigans, and the difference between the people they want to be (terezi: good and just and brave, vriska: a leader, someone who ppl trust, someone without weakness or guilt or remorse) and the people they've grown into being. it also parallels a lot of rose and dave's emotional problems, which i didn't anticipate while i was choosing the poems but worked out p well!
> 
> now, act II, with "the old astronomer." the reasons for choosing this poem are a little more personal. i just get really, really irrationally annoyed abt how ppl only know the famous few lines and have no clue that it's in the context of this larger story about an elderly astronomer on his deathbed, knowing that all his life no one has realized the value of his work, but telling his student to continue his work not out of a desire for fame or fortune but out of a sense of value for the science itself. even ppl who've read the full poem often think there's only 4 stanzas -- there's [actually 10 that were originally written!](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Old_Astronomer)
> 
> for me, this is a poem about perseverance. it talks abt how if you just stay strong in your convictions and know that what you're doing is good and true, it will be worthwhile, even if ppl dont acknowledge it, and that following what you believe is right to the very best of your ability, your life (and death) will be worthwhile too. that's a major thing that i'm trying to stress as i've started writing the chapters that come after this one. (you already see kanaya getting on board with it.)
> 
> also, the fact that "the old astronomer" is rly only known for a tiny part of itself is thematically important to this fic. i don't want to say more w/o being spoilery, but the condesce's big flaw is that she sees all the various main characters as separate parts — she has no idea just how allied and in league they all are, and the main characters have no idea how much strength they have all together. more importantly, the bit that everyone remembers is "though my soul will set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light / for i have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night," which makes it seem like that's where it ends, with the astronomer's death. but that's not true. the whole point is that the pupil continues the teacher's life's work, that there's still more that can be done, and the idea that kanaya tries to get across to rose in this chapter, that it's NOT OVER, is wrapped up neatly in this poem.


	14. red as fiery mars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here ya go, pals! 
> 
> WARNING: brief instance of a character coughing blood, and... eridan being an asshole in a conversation that i feel like i should warn for, but i'm not sure how. it's just a conversation and there's nothing graphic, so i don't think it should be a problem, but everyone's different and if you're super wary, you can shoot me an ask at my [tumblr](http://unintelligible-screaming.tumblr.com/), i'll answer asap

Your name is Vriska Serket, and you are talking to Rose Lalonde. In the brief time you’ve had before this to form an impression of her, you decided she was annoying and way too superior. You still weren’t expecting this conversation to be quite this frustrating, though.  
  
“Look, it’s a warzone. It’s not getting any safer,” you say for the eight millionth time.  
  
On the screen, she drums her fingers on the rudimentary work plateau. In the background, the other three humans are visible, stealing glances in Rose’s direction and muttering softly. “You could send in a scout,” she says.  
  
You throw your hands up in the air. “No! No, I fucking can’t! They keep getting shot down, because the Drinerus are freaking the fuck out because we’re getting close to their home system. This is why we need a teleporter and those weird invisible Voidey powers Terezi told me about.”  
  
“I don’t like it.”  
  
“I’m running out of reasons to care what you like.”  
  
Rose meets your gaze. You stare right back at that disturbingly unnatural lavender (seriously, even seadwellers don’t have that shit), because you are not going to beat in a staring contest by an alien from a species that hasn’t even invented faster-than-light travel.  
  
She breaks first. “No,” she says, shaking her head.  
  
You groan. “I just want Jade to teleport in and take a look around with Dave shielding her, and then I want Jade to shrink down the nearest Drinerus ship and bring it back so that we finally have something to question instead of a bunch of corpses. They can even take John so they’ve got something to breathe. It’s simple, it’s easy, it’s waaaay less dangerous than everything else you did on Earth. I don’t get why you’re being so difficult.”  
  
“The treaty stated that we would be consulted in what missions we would perform.”  
  
“Hooray, I’m consulting you now, are you happy?”  
  
“It is unsafe and it—”  
  
“ _Unsafe?_ Ohhhh my—I’ve repeated this _over_ and—”  
  
“—is poor strategy to make your most valuable players risk themselves so completely over a relatively minor—”  
  
“It’s not minor, you awful little mammal, it’s—”  
  
There’s a slam of a fist against metal.

“Shut up,” says Dave.  
  
Silence.

Rose turns to look away from the camera. “Dave,” she begins.  
  
He takes a step forward into the view of the camera and nods jerkily to the screen. “We’ll do it.”  
  
“Dave, you don’t know what you’re saying,” hisses Rose.  
  
“John and Jade and I decided,” he says flatly.  
  
Rose stills. Her hair is brushed to a perfect shine, her godtier clothes are pristine and unwrinkled, her facial expressions are careful and controlled. Her fingers tremble.  
  
Dave gives a one-shouldered shrug. “If we die justly, then so what? Then it happens how it’s supposed to, right?”  
  
“I would prefer not to allow the question to be raised,” says Rose.  
  
“Hey, Serket over there managed to survive this far, it can’t be that hard,” Dave says. (You interject with an indignant “hey!” but no one pays attention.)  
  
“Dave, you are too careless with your own life.”  
  
He gives a minuscule twitch. “It’s decided, Rose, let’s not do this right now.”  
  
“Yeah, Rose, not right now,” you echo. “Can we please leave your obnoxious psychoanalysis until after the Drinerus are enslaved and the remains of their independence have been snuffed out?”  
  
Even divided by distance and the limits of technology, you can sense the moment hanging in the air between them. The tension is noticeably foreign but also weirdly familiar, and then suddenly you realize—that’s the difference between human siblinghood and moirallegiance, isn’t it? They don’t have romantic chemistry you’d expect from a normal couple, but there is a connection there, albeit a purely platonic connection.  
  
What the fuck, honestly. It weirds you out when you think about it too hard.  
  
Then the moment ends, and Rose turns back to the screen. She tucks a strand of hair behind an ear and meets your gaze. “Let’s talk strategy.”  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you are utterly outraged.  
  
You’re staring at a blank white door that was just slammed in your face by Eridan fucking Ampora, a troll whom you were unsure was even alive until sixty seconds ago. And the first thing he did upon seeing you was grab you by the jacket collar, lift you off the ground, and deposit you outside the block like a misbehaving purrbeast. He was already a douchebag, but this is somewhat extreme.  
  
There’s a polite little cough from the aide to your left. She smells vaguely sympathetic. “Not expecting that?” she asks.  
  
“We have a bit of a history,” you say.  
  
She raises a well-groomed eyebrow. “History? With a General of the Interior?”  
  
You frown. “You’re telling me that Ampora is a General of the Interior.”  
  
“Newly appointed, I hear. He’s been making quite the stir.”  
  
“Well, I imagine so,” you say. “How the hell is he qualified for the position?”  
  
That means he’s not military. He’s part of the Alternian Council, the governing body that directs internal matters, as opposed to a real general who directs an actual army. Civilian generals, as they’re usually called, are a bit of a mixed bag when it comes to portrayals in popular culture—they got a lot of cracks about how they have no stomach for a fight, but they’re also supposed to be cold and calculating geniuses who can overcome their base trollish instincts and make good decisions for the whole of the empire. Since “base trollish instincts” always somehow translates as “highblood habit of going berserk at inconvenient moments,” you always figured the typical “cold and calculating” seadweller actor should just be replaced by literally any actor with a blood color lower than blue, but gog forbid there be some diversity in the media.

Regardless of your opinion on the matter, Eridan does not strike you as a typical civilian general.

The aide looks nervous. “Well, far be it from me to question the decisions of those higher than I…”  
  
“So what’s the ‘stir’ about, then?”  
  
“Well, he has some strong opinions about the castes staying in their rightful places. Not that that’s a _bad_ thing, mind, but he’s been making some drastic policy decisions, demoting petty officials and replacing them with higher-blooded candidates, and some other members of the Senate find the timing to be a bit unfortunate.”  
  
You nod, eyes narrowing. “Because of the recent unrest in the lowblood ranks. I see.”  
  
“He’s been pushing the military councils to adopt similar measures and demote officers whose blood ranks don’t quite, ah, match their military ranks,” says the aide. “We have it on good authority that he’s taken special offense to the recent appointment of Admir—” She jerks suddenly. “Ah. I mean. I don’t intend to cause any offense.”  
  
You start to grin. “Pissed about the blueblood admiral, is he? Especially since he’s got fins and he still doesn’t rank as high as her, right?”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t go quite that far. But a rivalry along that nature may possibly be featuring in tomorrow’s edition.” Her eyes narrow in interest. “You said you had a history with him?”  
  
Right. You are speaking to a staff member for Alternia’s premier gossip journalextortionist. You immediately regret opening your mouth.  
  
You’re saved from finding a non-incriminating answer by the abrupt swoosh of the door swinging outward. You jump back just in time. (The aide is not so lucky. She ends up clutching spot where her arm was hit by the door.)  
  
Eridan strides out, sneering down at you. “Pyrope. Let’s talk.” He makes like he’s going to grab your arm and haul you along like a rag doll, so you whip out your cane and rap his wrist hard.  
  
“Ow!” He jerks away. “That fuckin’ hurt.”  
  
“Yes, that’s generally the point of using weapons."  
  
The sneer deepens. “There any places we can have a private conversation?” he snaps in the aide’s direction. The aide nods and points to a block down the hall with the uninjured arm.  
  
“Good.” He gestures imperiously over his shoulder. You follow him to the empty block and wait as he shuts the door and uses a vocal command to turn on the lights, making sure your footing is steady and your cane is secure in your grasping appendages. When he’s done making sure the arrangements are satisfactory, he… he fucking turns on his heel, cape swooping out behind him, and turns to face you with a ramrod-straight spine. You can’t help it. You snort.  
  
Honestly you didn’t think it was possible to fit any more sneer onto a single face, but Eridan manages it anyway. “Watch yourself,” he spits. “I am not Vriska Serket. I will not treat you so mercifully.”  
  
“I assure you, Ampora, there is not a single thing you could possibly do to me that I have not already endured,” you say. You hope your voice doesn’t betray it, but the memory flares in your mind, sends throbs of pain through your skull. The skin on your arms turns hot, then cold, then hot again.  
  
“You’re probably wonderin’ why I need to speak to Admiral Serket so urgently,” he says. “It’s about this lowblood unrest we’ve been seein’ lately. The unrest that’s been increasin’ steadily for the past two sweeps.”  
  
The choice of topic puts you on edge, but you don’t freak out just yet. “Sorry, but how does that concern her? The Admiral works exclusively with the army. External defense. War-making. Not internal uprisings.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh really. I suppose that’s why her condescension just proposed a new strategy for subliminal obedience programmin’ in the newsfeeds to the Council, courtesy of your direct superior?”  
  
You stare blankly. Well, you always stare blankly, but still. You have no idea what the fuck he’s saying. Except—oh—hey, Vriska _did_ mention something like that, where she was trying to earn cred with the empress after she contacted Karkat and Kanaya to save their lives, but you hadn’t thought much of it. Shows how much you know.  
  
“Besides, the issue of possible insurgency is important to civilian and non-civilian sources. We’re real concerned about the military. Concerned that military isn’t makin’ enough of an effort to stamp it out.”  
  
“I assure you that the Admiral is doing everything in her power to discourage possible dissenters. She recently carried out the public execution of several insurgents, in fact. I filed the paperwork myself.”  
  
He makes a hmph sound. “Well, it’s also relevant for other reasons, which I will disclose at an appropriate an’ fittin’ time durin’ our conversation. Now, I—”  
  
“What? Why can’t you just ‘disclose’ it now?”  
  
“Now, I noticed during—”  
  
“It’s not a position paper or an essay, you don't have to keep the audience in suspense,” you say. “You could just. Open your trap and say the words.”  
  
“As I was saying, I’ve been noticin’ more than just Serket’s advice,” he says through his teeth. “I kept wonderin’, what happened two sweeps ago to agitate the lowbloods like this? I spent some time on the database, an’ I found some real finterestin’ stuff.” He pulls a husktablet from his sylladex. “I mean, I thought it was a coincidence, all of us being Conscripted at exactly that time. But it wasn’t, was it?”  
  
You furrow your brows, playing dumb. “We were all hatched at the same time. So no, I wouldn’t call it a coincidence.”  
  
He flicks a few things on the screen and tosses you the husktablet. Your limbs are shaky, but you catch it and drag your tongue over the screen. It’s an excerpt from the legislaceratorial database.  
  
It’s Nepeta’s case file.  
  
You stop breathing.  
  
If this stuck-up brinesucking asshole has actually ferreted out anything of importance… you don’t know what you’d do, but it’ll probably involve using indignation to disguise your terror.  
  
“You know, that night I woke up and remembered the Game again, I saw Leijon’s name in the newsfeeds,” he says. He starts to pace. “Guess she snapped and showed everyone what she was capable of, didn’t she. But it’s finny, isn’t it? I mean, how the everlovin’ fuck did a coddamn oliveblood wrangle her way onto Class II vessel like the Holy Wrath?”  
  
You start calculating the time it would take to clear the distance from you to the door.  
  
“She had to have some outside help, is what I’m sayin’. And we both know—” He grins, and a row of serrated teeth glint like bone. “We both know it was Captor.”  
  
“At this time the legislacerators are unable to determine whether or not there were accomplices,” you say. You figure two seconds to get to the door, two seconds to fumble it open.  
  
“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit,” he says, waving a grasping appendage glittering with jewelry. “The database says Captor’s wanted for failure to comply with helmsman conscription an' now there’s a bounty o’ half a million caegars on his head.”  
  
Of course, the four second total is assuming no pursuers, which is not a probable scenario. “I wouldn’t know. I stopped contacting our fellow players when I entered the legislaceratorial academy.”  
  
“Not even Vantas?”  
  
You shake your head.  
  
“Shame, ‘cause there’s somefin finny about his file on the personnel database,” says Eridan. “Namely, that he doesn’t have one. No record at all, not even in the conscription drones’ search database. It’s like he never even existed. And knowin’ what I know from Sgrub, it’s not hard to guess why.”  
  
He’s still pacing, and his cape swooshes out behind him every time he turns. You snort quietly at the melodrama, and then go back to wondering if you’ll make it out of this without another trip to the empress’s mindfuckers.  
  
“If you’re talking about him being a mutant, the lack of a record in the conscription drones’ database means nothing. He was likely culled before he reached conscription age.”  
  
“I fuckin’ wish, but I wouldn’t put survivin’ past him either,” he says. “I saw it comin’ from the moment we figured out about Kar. Should’ve done somefin about it then an' there, but did we? No, we didn’t, an' now look where we are.”  
  
“It would certainly be disturbing if our old comrades really are committing treason. What exactly do you need Vriska for?”  
  
“Well, we need to track them down, don’t we? Otherwise it’d be a real blow to our honor.”  
  
“I’m not sure ‘honor’ is a priority for the Admiral.”  
  
“Hah! O’ course it isn’t. But she still needs to stay in the Condesce’s favor, doesn’t she, or she’ll end up replaced in a few sweeps, an’ it won’t look so great if someone else finds them first an’ then asks why we didn’t say somefin. It’s not like we can jus’ explain the situation to the empress, ‘cause she doesn’t know anything about the Game—”  
  
You keep your face completely neutral.  
  
“—so we have to take care of it ourselves. This is the biggest nuisance the empire’s faced since the Summoner’s rebellion,” he says. “It needs to end now. An’ if it gets us respect and glory in the process, then all the better.”  
  
You’re about to spout some nonsense about how you’re totally on board with hunting down your friends, but you begin to feel a tingle on the backs of your palms. You inhale deeply, and a wisp of translucent green wafts across your mind’s eye.

Something is coming; not now, but soon. A Choice.  
  
Your instincts are your guide. You tilt your head and say, “That’s not your only motive here. There’s something else.”  
  
He shrugs. “No idea what you’re talkin’ about.”  
  
“Is it about Nepeta? Sollux? Karkat?” His scent betrays nothing. You start naming players he hasn’t implicated in treasonous activities. “Feferi, Kanaya, Gamzee? No, it’s—it’s Kanaya, isn’t it.”  
  
“We had an encounter. She’s one of them too, you know.”  
  
“And now you want to kill her?” you ask.  
  
“Hah! I killed her on Alternia two sweeps ago.”  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Your name is Vriska Serket, and you are reading a schoolfeeding text.

You haven’t done this since your first sweep at the academy. Most of those texts were dry, impersonal, and vaguely condescending, and by the time you graduated, the idea of learning out of a book rather than from experience was laughable. This, however, is an advanced schoolfeeding text for “mental honing artists,” which apparently is what the Condesce’s mindfuckers like to call themselves. You’re studying a file that was sent to you by one of the empress’s top psychics, a purpleblood who didn’t ask questions and was inordinately pleased that someone was taking an interest in her craft.  
  
After scrolling a bit, it becomes clear that this isn’t a job most purpleblood psychics can handle. The author spends a whole introduction waxing lyrical about how this kind of mind control is rare and powerful and vastly different from chucklevoodoo abilities, and when they finally get around to explaining what it actually is, you guffaw loudly. It's exactly the same powers that you’ve had all your life, plus some extra fear-mongering juju.

It's nostalgic, almost. You don't have a lot of good memories of your lusus, and she mostly spoke to you in commands, but you recall that every now and then, she'd give you a short, terse lecture about your powers. She told you psychic abiities were uncommon for your caste and that you should be grateful you were hatched strong. She never mentioned that a tiny fraction of purples had powers only slightly different than yours.  
  
You grimace. This book is so _weird._ It’s full of convoluted metaphors and overwrought prose—at one point the author devotes seven pages to developing a metaphor about the mind as a scalpel. Maybe there’s a layer of sophistication you’re not getting, but if you had to describe your mind as a tool you’d say it was a giant goddamn sledgehammer.  
  
The block fills with eerie green light. You jump out of your seat.  
  
Jade has her hands on John and Dave’s shoulders. The green electricity sparks around their bodies, casting their faces in grim shadows, before dying out.  
  
“Lighten up, will you? You look like you’re going to a corpse party,” you say.  
  
“I’m sorry, so murdering sentient beings isn’t on the agenda for today?” says Jade.  
  
You roll your eyes. “We’re approaching the Drinerus home system in twenty minutes. You got the strategy outline I sent you, right?”  
  
Jade starts to say something, but Dave cuts her off. “We did. We’re good. We know what to do. Ship gets in range, your instrument doodads give us a general picture of what’s out there, I use Void powers to hide us, John gives us an air bubble to breathe, Jade zaps us to our destination. We take a look around, Jade grabs an alien space ship, she zaps us back. Mission accomplished.”  
  
“Don’t fuck it up,” you say.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
“You… killed Kanaya? You mean in the Game, right?”  
  
“I wish. Same problem, the cullin’ didn’t take,” he says. “My entry assignment was to take her out for refusin’ to accept her caste duties, so I took the Crosshairs and blew her to pieces from a distance, where she couldn’t pull out that fuckin’ fashion accessory. Now I wake up this evenin’ and go, oh wait, she’s a coddamn rainbow drinker.”  
  
“That must be an, uh, experience,” you say, reeling. You’re not entirely sure if words are even being coherently issued from your mouth.  
  
He shakes his head. “You don’t know how fuckin’ frustratin’ it was. Can’t I jus’ kill one person properly? Cod.”  
  
“And now you want to cull her again?”  
  
“I’m tired of being disrespected. I’m tired of being the last to know. So yeah, I want her to see her friends die slowly, an' then I want her dead too.”  
  
You swallow. “Oh.”  
  
“But enough about me,” he says, straightening his lapels. “Tell me about Serket. What’s her motivation here?”  
  
“Her what?” You’re distracted by the tendrils of green mist twisting around Eridan’s claws.  
  
“Her motive for bein’ here. For pushin’ for an admiral’s position. Why? Why even go to the trouble? Wouldn’t it be simpler to accept a posting more, ah, suited to her blood?”  
  
“Vriska achieved the admiralty after an exhaustive culling process throughout her training at the officer’s academy. Her rank is sanctioned by the empress herself. I wouldn’t look down on it if I were you.”  
  
“I’m askin’ cause Vris is so obviously sabotagin’ herself. Her choices—well, she’s clearly not actin’ with conduct becomin’ of an officer an' a highblood.”  
  
“What choices are you referring to?”  
  
“You, obviously,” says Eridan. “She’s already set back because she’s cobalt, so why in hell would she take on a Second who’s never been trained, never been vetted, who’s not even a blue like her?”  
  
Your jaw clenches. “I’m her moirail.”  
  
He snorts. “Please. A tealblood with a measly five nights of reconditioning is no more than a common conciliatory whore.”  
  
The world seems to slow. Fury burns like ice in your veins. Your teeth breaks the skin of your inner cheek, and your own blood is bitter on your tongue. You open your flap, about to say _and a civilian seadweller is no more than cannon fodder, isn’t that right?_ You want to ask him if he’s jealous that Vriska has the life he used to dream of as a wriggler.  
  
The green mist swirls, and you See.  
  
_You step forward and bare your teeth and unleash your words, your first and foremost weapon. He backhands you. It makes you stumble back, trip, come back swinging. He’s not trained like a soldier, so you draw your blade and cut into his forearm before he reacts. He flinches back, then reaches out and grabs your wrist, crushing the bones instantly._  
  
_The pain drives you to your knees. That’s when the other thing hits you. A black, oppressive force falls over your thinkpan, says you shouldn’t have lashed out, you shouldn’t have disobeyed. It drowns you. Chokes you._  
  
_You’re unconscious for a while. You wake up in the same block, but Eridan is gone._  
  
_He’s wary now. He thought you were tamed, but you were not. He digs into your past, dredges up what Peikeo Mirkai found—that you conspired with the Cult to rescue Tavros from culling. One day you’re sleeping in your ‘coon, wondering when Vriska will return, when the Empress’s guards break down the door and drag you out._  
  
_They take you back to the dark place, the place that dwells in a knot in your throat when you try to swallow, the place that pushed fear into you like a syringe pushes into skin. You have no more leverage. No more dark secrets about hidden Heiresses to dangle in front of the Condesce’s nose. Vriska is a galaxy away, and this time she can’t save you._  
  
The Sight releases you. Your senses return to the familiar, and you take a moment to smell the plain gray of the floor and the off-white of the walls, trying to root yourself in reality. The world is a pair of scales and you are the fulcrum.

  
“I’m not sure I’m the best troll to answer your query,” you say, smiling diplomatically and sidestepping the insult. “I’ll be sure to pass your concerns on to Vriska.”  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Your name is Vriska Serket, and when the three humans stumble out of green electricity and onto your ship, the first thing you notice is their empty hands.  
  
“What the fuck,” you say, “I asked you to get me a—”  
  
“It’s right here,” says Jade, chest heaving. She reaches into a pocket and holds something up, showing you a tiny bubble floating between her thumb and index finger.  
  
They all look exhausted. John keeps taking deep breaths that suck up the air and ruffle your clothing. Jade is supporting Dave and keeping weight off his left leg, which sports a nasty-looking burn mark.  
  
You squint at the bubble. Inside is a warship shrunk to tiny size. It’s the odd circular form you instantly recognize as a Drinerus vessel, and when you squint even closer, you notice the exact pattern of bumps and ridges on its hull. That particular pattern isn't necessarily standard for the average Drinerus ship. You've seen it once before, on a blurry surveillance photograph from half a sweep ago, the only time Alternian forces had ever succeeded in disrupting high-security Drinerus stealth shields. Your eyes widen. “That’s not… no. No way.”  
  
“Yeah, we got you the flagship. The high command. The kingpin. Happy fucking birthday,” says Dave. He coughs wetly, scattering drops of blood onto the floor.  
  
“Just hang in there, okay?” says Jade softly, rubbing his shoulder. “Just a bit longer.”  
  
“Holy shit. I take it back, I take back every word I said about you all being fucking useless idiots. I _love_ you,” you say. “The Drinerus have this super strict hierarchical structure and they really idolize their leaders—it’s like kidnapping the empress. That’s the checkmate.”  
  
“Tell me where to put it so we can take Dave back to heal,” Jade says.  
  
“Why is everything always so wonderful?” you ask yourself, staring at the marvelous little bubble. You realize Harley is asking you a question. “What? Oh, there’s a holding area attached to the Battleship Condescension. Give it to me and I’ll take it back.”  
  
“Fine,” she says, tossing you the bubble. You catch it easily. It hovers an inch above your palm, faintly generating heat. “Don’t break it, ‘cause I’m not buying you another one.”  
  
She hugs her friends closer and forms a rectangle with her fingers. A twist of her hand and they’re gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (shamelessly self-promotes my [tumblr](http://unintelligible-screaming.tumblr.com/), where you can get snippets of this fic as well as fic i haven't posted to ao3, as well as a copious amount of shitposting)


	15. to be fearful of the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been forever folks but i'm not dead yet
> 
> WARNINGS: nothing except for what's in the main fic tags, and general mentions of genocide/slavery/etc, but that's kind of the main focus of the fic, so it shouldn't be a surprise.

Your name is Vriska Serket, and you’re holding the Drinerus empire between your fingertips.  
  
The tiny bubble resembles a round, iridescent pearl. The jagged edges of a spaceship rotate slowly inside when you squint closely. It tingles like static electricity.  
  
“That’s not really… you… you can’t be serious,” says Captain Nijeia.  
  
You tap at the giant screen at the bow of the ship until you get to a call screen. “Oh yes I am,” you say, sending the call request. It spits out several confirmation requests, since this isn’t a number you want to ping by mistake. The “call accepted message” comes a few seconds later. The screen blinks and turns into a full-screen video.  
  
The first thing you see is tall, curving horns and an impossible mass of hair. In the background you see coral pillars and artificial tidepools rimmed in gold and amethyst. She must be in her private quarters.  
  
“Hello there,” purrs the Condesce. “You betta have some good news.”  
  
“Harley nabbed the high command. They won’t know what to do without their leaders. They’re finished.”  
  
“No fuckin’ way! You’re joking.” Her lips curve into a vicious grin.  
  
“I wouldn’t dare, your condescension. It’s right here.” You hold up your prize.  
  
“Well then don’t just stand around, get back here. Didja tell your gillfrond that her plan worked out?”  
  
“Thought I’d surprise her,” you say. You’ve been so busy the past few nights that you haven’t had time to talk to her. You hope she’s doing okay.  
  
“Aww, that’s just adorabubble,” she says, and you can’t tell if her d’aww face is genuine or not. “I’ll get the holding area set up so you have somewhere to put that thing when the dog human, what’s her name, resizes it back up, ‘kay? Opportunity for a big demonstration. Build morale. I like to throw the troops a bone every now and then. I’ll have the PR department whip up somefin for you to say for the newsfeeds.”  
  
The memory of a hundred unnecessary fish puns flash before your eyes. “I’ll pass, thanks,” you say hurriedly.  
  
“Come on, you know an order when ya hear it,” she says. “Aboat the incident with that rust private you killed, though…”  
  
You tense. “I figured I needed to make a good first impression.” You’d been hoping it would convince her you were loyal.  
  
“Damn, Fishka, I thought you were softer than that,” she says approvingly. “Turns out you reely do have globes of steel.”  
  
“Thank you, your condescension.”  
  
“Yeah yeah, just don’t overdo it. And don’t forget I’ll being sea-ing you in the war room in a few hours after you come back.”  
  
The vid call ends. You glance over to the captain, who is hunched up in mid-flinch. “What are _you_ cringing over?”  
  
“I—ah.” He winces. “I’ve never, ah, experienced _her_ before.”  
  
You roll your eyes. “Okay, whatever, just get the helmsman to sync up with the Battleship Condescension and plug in the right coordinates,” you say. Technically you could do it yourself, but you hate interacting with the helm. It icks you out how the troll’s mind is just _not there_ —there’s a flicker every now and then, when it (he?) has an outburst, almost like he (it?) remembers something from before, but then it’s back to an empty husk spitting out velocity data without a single hint of consciousness. Delegation is leaderly, right? There was a whole unit on task division at the academy.  
  
It doesn’t take long for the orders to be sent out to your fleet and to start the journey back to the flagship’s position. You spend the remaining time in your quarters, changing into a cleaner uniform and watching your husktop for updates. Your wardrobifier tries to give you all this pointlessly heavy gold jewelry, encrusted with sapphires and aquamarines, to wear for your “upcoming event,” but you just toss it back in. What do you look like, royalty? Besides, putting something like that around your neck is basically like wearing a sign that says “strangle me.” (Although a punch with a few of those rings on your knuckles could probably do a good job of rearranging someone’s face.)  
  
“The _Cerulean Glory_ will be docking with the Battleship Condescension in five minutes,” says the helmsman’s dispassionate voice over the speakers. You send off a quick message to Terezi:  
  
AG: I’m 8ack!!!!!!!! Meet me on the docking port on the star8oard side. :::)  
  
Your palmhusk doesn’t vibrate until you’re walking across the bridge and about to disembark.  
  
GC: 1S ST4RBO4RD R1GHT OR L3FT YOU FUCK  
  
The doors open with a pneumatic hiss. On the other side is practically a battalion of blue blood attendants, plus two generals from the war table. There’s also Jade Harley, hovering an inch above the ground and attracting confused stares from the trolls around her.  
  
The Captain chokes a little. “With all due respect, what the hell is that?”  
  
“An alien. The helpful kind. Sort of, anyway. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“But—”  
  
You don’t catch what he says next, because someone is pushing through the crowd. “Pardon me, pardon me,” says Terezi, elbowing people aside. “Sorry I’m late. Hey there, Serket!”  
  
Her clothes are rumpled and there are dark circles under her eyes. She doesn’t look like she went three rounds with the Handmaid anymore, but she doesn’t look great either. Still, she’s grinning with all her teeth. She comes up to stand next to you. Her hand hovers an inch above your arm, holding off from touching you at the last moment, like she’s not sure it’s allowed.  
  
Her informality is gathering scandalized stares, especially from the other generals’ Seconds, who are standing exactly one step behind their designated officers and avoiding eye contact with anyone higher-ranked than them. On the other hand, the infuriating propaganda guy who drags out his H’s is inexplicably present, and he’s looking disturbingly excited.  
  
You grin back at Terezi and wind your arm around her waist. She’s warm. “I missed you, Pyrope,” you say. “I brought you a surprise.”  
  
“Ooh, really?”  
  
“The holding area is prepared,” cuts in General Torsha. “I understand this alien… creature… is to take the Drinerus vessel out of the airlock and release it into containment.”  
  
You look at Jade. “Don’t you need John?”  
  
“He’s resting after healing Dave.”  
  
“Well, go get him. We’re not waiting so he can take a nap.”  
  
Loathing flashes across her face. She disappears. A few trolls jump, looking frightened.  
  
“It’s not a good idea to make Mister Sky Blue use his powers if he’s too tired,” murmurs Terezi against your ear. “Don’t want a fatal error.”  
  
You agree, but the Condesce has declared that this is a thing that’s happening no matter what, so too bad. You pat her shoulder, the closest bit of her you can reach. “I got him to godtier and then we saved his species, it’s the least he could do for us,” you murmur back. She makes a disagreeing sound.  
  
The Battleship and the rest of the core fleet have been instructed to form a ring around an empty expanse of space. Smaller vessels are stationed at strategic points around the perimeter, read to fire immobilization beams. After making your way to the designated airlock, crew and servants in tow, Jade and John appear without ceremony a few feet away from you. You hand Harley the grand prize. The two of them vanish and reappear on the other side of the wide window, shrouded in the dark of the vacuum, encased in a sphere of whipping winds.  
  
This particular feature of the spacecraft has many uses, but impromptu executions is the primary one, so the empress has ordered you to make use of the cameras dotted around the airlock and their live-streaming capabilities. The propaganda guy, whatever his name is, is already fiddling with video equipment.  
  
Terezi hasn’t let go of you for even a second. As much as you want to keep hugging her close, you settle for shifting so she’s hanging off your arm instead. There. It’s not exactly protocol, but you really need some skin contact right now. You missed her _so_ fucking much. The pose is kind of like you’re arriving at a formal event with a quadrant as your plus-one, isn’t it? Fuck it. The gossip mags are already having fun scrutinizing your romantic life. (You don’t miss the PR guy’s eyes widening in interest.)  
  
The broadcasting light blinks on, and you straighten your spine and smile. “This is Admiral Vriska Serket, commander of the Alternian Fleet, and I have returned triumphant.”  
  
It’s the speech the Condesce had someone write for you, mercifully free of fish puns.  
  
“For sweeps we have struggled against the Drinerus aliens, a worthy and formidable foe.” The cameras swivel to focus on you. “We have sacrificed many lives, knowing that our service brings the glorious empire one step closer to total dominion. This is our birthright. As trolls, our inheritance is the universe. The Drinerus have resisted that. They have refused their rightful place under our heel. But we won’t rest until we prevail.”  
  
Outside the warm belly of the ship, Jade meets your gaze. She can’t hear what you’re saying, but there’s a coldness in her face that nearly makes you flinch.  
  
“Tonight, a combination of strategy and technology have secured a victory for our forces. Through miniaturization techniques, I have captured the Drinerus high command. Their empress, if you will.”  
  
You nod at Harley. She tosses her hands in the air.  
  
The bubble grows from a speck to a soap bubble a few meters across, then to the length of a troll, then even larger. The humans fly back, out of the way, as the bubble pops and the jagged, foreign warship expands to its full gargantuan size. The immobilization beams flash into action.  The Drinerus ship seizes into stillness, frozen in place. At the edge of your line of sight, smaller crafts zoom forward to board the vessel and take the enemy soldiers into custody. Terezi’s claws clamp down on your arm. She’s sniffing like crazy and she’s trembling with barely contained excitement.  
  
“With this, conquest of the Drinerus is certain,” you continue. “And this is without doubt the greatest conquest Alternia has ever known.”  
  
You stare at the infinite darkness between the stars and say, “All hail her imperious condescension, and glory to her name.”

 

* * * *

 

The sound of applause follows you as you head for the upper decks. You learned to block out background psychic noise when you were eight, but General Torsha’s glare makes your skin prickle so strongly that you almost mistake it for the pressure of your thoughts. “What’s her problem?” you mutter once you’re out of earshot.  
  
“Hmm?” Terezi’s claws prickle gently at your sleeve.  
  
“General Sourface doesn't seem too happy.”  
  
“She was in command of the Drinerus campaign since the beginning, and then you swept in and ended it in a single stroke. She’s jealous and pissed and views you as a rival. Obviously. Vriska, you’re kind of an idiot, you know that?”  
  
“But that’s why I have you!”  
  
You feel her smile against your shoulder. “How did you survive the academy again?”  
  
You’re developing your best snarky answer when you feel a buzzing through Terezi’s clothes. She fishes out her palmhusk. You feel her tense up. She shows you the screen.  
  
)(IC: good work lil guppy  
)(IC: tell your gillfrond i wanna sea bot)( of you in t)(e t)(rone room  
  
Terezi is silent. You know she’s worried, and you pull her a little closer. “Hey, don’t worry,” you say, even as you realize how useless the words are. “I’ll be there. We’ll do it together. We did everything right this time, remember?”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” she says.  
  
“It was mostly you, of course. You came up with all the plans, I just shouted at a few people,” you say. “And the Condesce just congratulated you, so it’s not like she’s mad. You’ll be fine. Promise.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know, Admiral Blueberry, it’s not like this mental freakout stuff is particularly logical.” She gives you a halfhearted smile. “I’m glad to see you.”  
  
You think about the files you obtained, the ones that discuss the conditioning of an Auxiliary. You decide that you’re going to fix this if it’s the last thing you do.  
  
But for now, at least, you’re back and she’s here and she’s glad to see you, and she just helped you defeat the biggest threat the empire has faced in millennia. That’s something to be happy about, right? This is what you imagined when you requested her as your Second so long ago, wasn’t it? Now all of Alternia knows your name. A few moments ago, you felt as if you could fly.  
  
You are literally capable of flight.  
  
Well, then.  
  
Terezi lets out a yell when you grab under her knees and gather her into your arms, then launch into the air. There isn’t much height in the corridor and you almost bang your horns against the ceiling. Terezi starts to laugh. You zoom forward, picking up speed as you zip around corners. The ghosts of wings beat along your spine, and when you crane your neck and take a look behind you, you see a faint, nearly invisible shimmer where they should be.  
  
“Holy shit, Vriska!” She’s giggling. “Where are you even—” You fumble your grip and almost drop her. She squeaks. “ _Fuck,_ be careful—just because you’re strong and can _fly—_ ”  
  
Next stop is an elevator. An unsuspecting clerk has just walked through the doors and is about to select their floor, so you swoop in and plant a boot along their spine. They stumble out, the elevator doors shut with a _ding!_ and you dump Terezi. She scrambles to land on her feet, almost overbalancing, and you recall too late that she doesn’t have a soldier’s training in how to fall. The elevator’s little screen tells you it recognizes your ID, and you hit the sparkly pink button that will take you to the Condesce’s quarters.  
  
“Damn, I forgot we were literally aged three sweeps,” pants Terezi, leaning against the wall of the elevator.  
  
“Just like old times?”  
  
“Hah! Yeah, including the murder of hundreds of innocents.”  
  
Uh. You guess she’s not… _wrong._ But this is your job. This is her job. “Uh?” you respond intelligently. You can’t tell if she’s serious or joking.  
  
She pats your shoulder. “I’m in a weird mood right now. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“Excuse you. Worrying about you is my job.”  
  
The elevator slows to a halt. GREETINGS, ADM. V. SERKET! YOU ARE ENTERING THE THRONE ROOM OF HER IMPERIOUS CONDESCENSION, it tells you. The doors slide open, and beyond is the throne room.  
  
Walls of solid gold recede into darkness overhead. Pink and purple gemstones are encrusted in the floor and the walls, glimmering darkly. With her jewelry and her pitch black chitin and the cloud of hair spilling out behind the throne, the Condesce looks like a statue carved just for this room. You bow.  
  
She grins down from the dais. “Whale, your first mission went fast, didn’t it? I knew this was a glubbin’ great idea.”  
  
“Thank you, your condescension,” you say.  
  
Her eyes flicker to your moirail. “Now you could stand to look a little happier.”  
  
“On the contrary, your magnificent harshness, I’m ecstatic,” says Terezi. “It’s probably the ocular shades.”  
  
“Yeah, shore,” she scoffs. “By the wave, is either of you gonna explain why you’re just letting the angry dog girl teleport wherever she wants? Shouldn’t she have some kinda escort?”  
  
“Well, your condescension, we’re not sure how to, uh, _stop_ her,” says Terezi. “She can bend the fabric of spacetime.”  
  
The empress stares at her, then shakes her head. “Whatebber. Moving on. Look, here’s the deal: there’s more shit that needs to happen with the Drinerus, but that’s a job for my intelligence division, not for you two gills. But Pyrope, you’ll be examining the progression of the integration efforts, got it? It’s im-port-ant strategy you’ll need to learn.”  
  
Terezi nods.  
  
You frown. “So that’s just the end? You’re just handing it over to someone else?” Oh come on, this is the turning point in the war, but it’s not the end. It’s your first major victory. You want in on the spoils.  
  
“Clam down, Serket, you’re alraydy getting all the credit. Plenty of interviews for the newsfeeds in your future.”  
  
“Oh.” You try to keep your tone at “neutral” and not “struck by terror of uncomfortably nosy propaganda division trolls.”  
  
“And one of ‘ems gonna be aboat your upcoming title ceremony,” she finishes.

 

* * * *

 

\-- [redacted] [CG] began trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \--  
  
CG: SERKET.  
CG: I KNOW YOU’RE ONLINE.  
CG: IT SAYS YOU’RE ONLINE RIGHT THERE, WHICH MEANS YOU’RE 1) READING THIS AND IGNORING ME, 2) SEEING THAT I SENT YOU MESSAGES BUT FAILING TO OPEN THEM, OR 3) ARE SUCH A FUCKING DUMBASS THAT YOU FAILED TO KEEP YOUR PALMHUSK AND/OR HUSKTOP IN YOUR PRESENCE.  
CG: IF 1), THEN FUCK YOU. IF 2), THEN FUCK YOU. IF 3), THEN I’D SAY FUCK YOU, BUT IT SEEMS YOU’VE SUCCESSFULLY MANAGED TO FUCK YOURSELF OVER ALL ON YOUR OWN. CONGRATS!  
CG: I HOPE YOU’RE PROUD.  
CG: NOW, WANNA KNOW WHAT HOT GOSSIP JUST HIT THE CONSPIRACY THEORIST BLOGS?  
CG: THE COOLEST NEW CRYPTID THE FORUMS ARE GOING WILD OVER?  
AG: Why the fuck would I care????????  
CG: OPTION 1, THEN? FUCK YOU!  
AG: You’re 8oring and irrelevant, Karkat. Get over it! Your messages are not that important to my life.  
AG: So can you get on with whatever 8ullshit you were 8usy spouting a8out tinfoil hat 8loggers and leave me alone?  
CG: HERE’S A HINT.  
CG: THIS CRYPTID IS BRIGHT BLUE. IT’S GOT BUCKTEETH.  
AG: . . . . . . . .  
AG: You’re fucking with me.  
  
\-- [redacted] [CG] sent file SUSPICIOUS_SCREENSHOT.png \--  
  
CG: IT’S SUCH A STEREOTYPICAL BLURRY UFO PHOTO THAT MY OCULAR ORBS BURN IN SHAME WITH THE KNOWLEDGE THAT IT IS, IN FACT, A REAL ALIEN SIGHTING.  
CG: I ASSUME HARLEY MUST BE THERE TOO, SINCE IT’S A ZOOMED IN SCREENSHOT FROM THE VICTORY ANNOUNCEMENT, BUT SHE BLENDS IN WITH OUTER SPACE.  
CG: THE PATHETICALLY HILARIOUS THING IS THAT SO FAR, ONLY ONE OR TWO FORUM PARTICIPANTS HAVE COME UP WITH AN “ADMIRAL SERKET IS USING ALIEN SUPERPOWERS TO COMPROMISE THE DRINERUS HIGH COMMAND” THEORY AND THEY’VE ALL BEEN SHUT DOWN IMMEDIATELY BY THE REST OF THE CONSPIRACY COMMUNITY.  
AG: As caaaaaaaaptiv8ing as all this is, why are you messaging me a8out it and not Terezi? She actually likes putting up with your ram8ling.  
CG: FOR ONE THING, I WANTED TO ASK YOU ABOUT THAT LITTLE SPEECH YOU GAVE.  
CG: YOU COULD’T POSSIBLY HAVE WRITTEN IT, SO WHO DID? TEREZI? NO WAY.  
AG: It was one of the Condesce’s speechwriters.  
CG: NICE TURNS OF PHRASE IN THAT THING.  
CG: WHAT DID YOU SAY EXACTLY? “AS TROLLS, THE UNIVERSE IS OUR BIRTHRIGHT?” AND THEN YOU ENDED WITH ALL HAIL HIC.  
AG: Not exactly, 8ut whatever.  
CG: DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT SAYING THAT MEANS?  
AG: Um? Yes? I do? It’s pretty straightforward.  
CG: DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE DIE WITH THAT AS THE LAST THING THEY EVER HEAR?  
CG: THE DRINERUS ARE A SENTIENT SPECIES. THEY HAVE A CULTURE, A SOCIETY, AN ENTIRE WORLD THAT IS ABOUT TO BE SMASHED INTO TINY FUCKING PIECES BECAUSE THE CONDESCE WENT ALL OOH SHINY AT THEIR POTENTIAL FOR ENSLAVEMENT. DON’T YOU FEEL ANY REMORSE FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE?  
AG: Jeez! I'm just doing my jo8.  
CG: DODGING RESPONSIBILITY? WELL, I GUESS IT’S WHAT YOU’RE BEST AT.  
AG: I didn’t even WRITE the damn speech, assh8le!  
CG: BUT YOU STOOD THERE AND DELIVERED IT WITH A SMILE.   
CG: DON’T LIE, YOU WERE ENJOYING IT. IT WAS ALL OVER YOUR FACE.  
AG: So what? I won. It was hard. No one else could do it, but Terezi and I did. Can’t I 8e proud?  
CG: WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU PROUD OF? WHAT PART OF IT? THOUSANDS HAVE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU. THOUSANDS OF KIDS WILL GROW UP IN CHAINS BECAUSE OF YOU.  
AG: They’re aliens, holy shit, calm down.  
CG: NO, I WILL NOT FUCKING CALM DOWN.  
CG: HOW CAN YOU BE CALM ABOUT SOMETHING LIKE THIS? I BROUGHT UP JOHN’S ENTRY INTO THE HALL OF UFO FAME BECAUSE I WAS HOPING IT MIGHT JOG YOUR MEMORY. MIGHT MAKE YOU THINK, HMM, I WONDER IF IT MIGHT BE A BIT INSENSITIVE TO USE TWO PEOPLE FROM A RECENTLY CONQUERED SPECIES TO INITIATE THE COUP D’ETAT FOR THE CONQUEST OF ANOTHER.  
AG: Wow, is this the overreaction of a lifetime.  
AG: They’re doing this in exchange for their planet 8eing left ALONE, remem8er?  
AG: We saved them.  
AG: I saved them.  
AG: Remem8er who I also saved? You!!!!!!!! I saved your ungr8ful ass when your prank with the glowy Sufferist chains interrupting the imperial newsfeeds ended with the culling drones on your tail!  
AG: And the reason I could do that was 8ecause of this. I’m an imperial general, Vantas! I could’ve done whateeeeeeeever I wanted with your little insurgent movement. I could’ve given the empress your trollian handle. 8ut I didn’t, did I, I put myself on the line for you.  
AG: So now that I’m done cleaning up that particular fuck-up of yours, I’d like to get back to my jo8, thank you very much.  
AG: 8ecause you know what? I trained for this. I fought for this. There was a time where I actually fucking died and then came 8ack for it.  
AG: We’re trolls. War is what we are.  
AG: I think you’re just pissed 8ecause I’m a 8etter troll than you.  
CG: YOU DON’T GET IT, DO YOU?  
CG: THIS ISN’T ABOUT WHAT YOU DID.  
CG: IT’S ABOUT WHAT YOU SAID JUST NOW.  
CG: DON’T YOU REALIZE HOW DEEPLY AWFUL THAT STATEMENT IS? DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT TROLLS WHO THINK LIKE THAT HAVE DONE TO ALTERNIA?  
CG: ISN’T THERE A SINGLE FOLLICLE OF HAIR, A SINGLE OOZING PUSTULE ON YOUR SKIN THAT KNOWS IT’S ****WRONG****?  
AG: Nice eight *’s.  
CG: ASDF;AFJ  
CG: OH MY FUCKING  
CG: I’M BEGINNING TO WONDER IF SOME BIT OF YOU IS SO BROKEN THAT YOU JUST CAN’T SEE IT.  
AG: Really, Karkat? You, the mutant, talking a8out 8eing 8roken?  
CG: AND YOU KNOW WHAT, I’M FUCKING PROUD OF IT!  
  
\-- [redacted] [CG] changed their text color to red! \--  
  
CG: I'M PROUD TO BE WHAT THE EMPIRE CALLS BROKEN.  
CG: I’LL DIE IN MY OWN COLOR.  
CG: IT’S CALLED OWNING UP TO WHAT YOU BELIEVE IN, SERKET. YOU SHOULD TRY IT ONE OF THESE NIGHTS.  
AG: I own up to what I 8elieve all the time. You’re mad 8ecause what I “”””8elieve”””” is different from you.  
CG: I THINK I’M ACTUALLY GOING TO PICK UP MY HUSKTOP AND HURL IT AGAINST A WALL.  
CG: IF WE’RE SOOO DIFFERENT, THEN HOW COME YOU SAVED US?  
AG: ‘Cause of Terezi, duh. If you get caught then so does she.  
CG: THEN WHY DID YOU CARE ABOUT HER? WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST TURN HER IN?  
AG: Uh  
AG: Does Karkat “master of quadrants” Vantas want a lecture on pale romance?  
CG: BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT THE OTHER GENERALS IN THE EMPRESS’S COUNCIL WOULD HAVE DONE.  
AG: Well, yeah, they’d pro8a8ly flay her alive, pale or not.  
CG: SEE?! THIS IS WHAT’S SO FUCKING INFURIATING. YOU ARE DIFFERENT. YOU’RE NOT LIKE THEM.  
CG: YOU PUT YOUR LIFE ON THE LINE FOR US. FOR *ALL* OF US, NOT JUST TEREZI. WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT.  
CG: AND THEN YOU JUST GO AND SAY THE, THE STUPIDEST SHIT.  
CG: “We’re trolls. War is what we are.” HOW CAN ANYONE WITH A WORKING THINKPAN TYPE THAT OUT AND HIT RETURN.  
CG: WHAT’S IN THAT THICK BLUEBLOOD PANCASE? SOUPY MUSH? A BLOODY MESS OF BURST VESSELS?  
AG: Okay, I’ve completely lost track of what this conversation was supposed to 8e a8out.  
CG: I WONDER WHY I EVEN BOTHER TRYING WITH YOU.  
CG: TEREZI SAYS YOU TALK SHIT ABOUT THE HEMOSPECTRUM ALL THE TIME. I’M NOT AN IDIOT, I KNOW YOU DON’T BELIEVE IN ALL THAT ENDLESS WAR, GLORY TO HIC, RAH-RAH BULLSHIT, NOT DEEP DOWN.  
CG: YOU JUST CLING TO IT BECAUSE YOU CAN’T FUCKING BEAR THE IDEA OF QUESTIONING YOUR IDENTITY.  
CG: YOU'RE A COWARD, VRISKA.  
\-- admiralGrandstander [AG]  has blocked [redacted] [CG]! \--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: general torsha is named after one of my cats. she's not an oc or anything, i don't really have any ocs, i just needed a character to be there, so i gave her the first name i thought of.


	16. ere my vision grows too weak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like this chapter. i really, really like this chapter. WARNINGS: nothing new, just the same mind control/mental conditioning fuckery as in past chapters, as well as a brief, non-graphic discussion of torture.

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you are reviewing reports detailing the latest stages of the Drinerus integration. Vriska is supposed to be… actually, you’re not sure what she’s supposed to be doing right now, but you’re fairly sure it doesn’t involve fidgeting and scowling vaguely into the middle distance, clearly having an argument with herself. It’s incredibly distracting.  
  
“What is it?” you ask.  
  
Vriska shoots you a glare. “ _What._ ”  
  
“Something’s gotten you all twisted up,” you say. “Talk to me.”  
  
She frowns. “It’s stupid.”  
  
“Maybe, but it’s still bothering you.”  
  
She makes a big show of fiddling with the cuff of her jacket and pretending she suddenly can’t hear.  
  
You stretch your arms. “Vriska, come on.” When she continues to ignore your words, you say, “Come on, you can’t be that upset—you’re going to be _titled_ , for fuck’s sake.” The concept of Vriska’ title ceremony still feels slightly unreal. This is the same troll who once nearly got a concussion because she tried to hang upside down in a tree and got distracted and fell. She was five sweeps old at the time, but still…  
  
You expect Vriska to perk up at the mention of the ceremony, but her face only twitches briefly into a smile before collapsing into the same preoccupied expression.  
  
_Not good_ , you think. You try asking, “Have you thought about what your title will be?”  
  
She shrugs distractedly. Then she gets up, goes to the ablution block, and slams the door. You hear the sound of the ablution trap turning on.  
  
It goes on. And on. And on and on, for over an hour. You spend the time staring blankly at your husktop, wondering what could possibly have shook Vriska like this. All that’s happened is that you came back from the meeting with empress and settled into Vriska’s personal quarters. When the two of you walked in a half hour earlier, Vriska gave you a tiny kiss on your temple and you said you were going to change clothes. She went to open her husktop. Just as you returned, she slammed the screen down hard, then started pacing, refusing to say what was wrong.  
  
Now, she comes out of the ablution block with wet hair and a less wrinkled uniform. She won’t meet your gaze. She goes to her husktop, opens it up, and glares. Irritation wafts off her. You crane your neck and sniff—the screen is cracked down the middle. The device flickers on reluctantly, but it’s slow and stuttered.  
  
“Wow,” you say. “I hope whatever they said to you was pretty damn earthshaking, if it was worth breaking perfectly serviceable hardware.”  
  
Your guess must hit home, because her gaze orbs widen. “How did you know—?”  
  
“Figuring out that you’re acting like this because of a conversation you had is not exactly the most difficult investigation I’ve ever conducted,” you say. “Think of it as special moirail powers. Now are you going to tell me what’s going on?”  
  
“It’s dumb and pointless. There’s really zero point in talking about it. I’ll get over it soon enough. Can you requisition another one of these?” She holds up the husktop.  
  
You sigh. “Fine.”  
  
You don’t know why she’s being so resistant. She’s always been open to shouting about the things that make her frustrated, if maybe not in the most emotionally honest manner.  
  
“Besides,” says Vriska, “I’m—” She breaks off suddenly, staring at her screen. “What the _fuck?_ ”  
  
“What is it?” You walk over. Visible, or rather, scentable, through the cracked screen is tonight’s newsfeed, and the first headline is GENERAL OF THE INTERIOR INTRODUCES NEW SCREENING MEASURES FOR SECURITY PERSONNEL. Below it is a photo of Eridan Ampora, staring stonily at the camera.  
  
“Oh, right,” you say, wincing. “Him.”

 

* * * *

 

“I can’t believe this,” says Vriska, throwing her grasping appendages in the air. “He shows up out of the blue, bold as brass, and has the _nerve_ to demand a meeting with me? He’s supposed to be dead!”  
  
You nod. “How rude of him, being totally whole and alive and in one chainsaw-untouched piece. He really should have posted a notice.”  
  
“Yeah! And what does he even want to talk to me about? All the good ol’ times we had in the Game? How he tried to sell us out to Jack Noir?”  
  
Your mouth twists. “Can we… not talk about that.”

“You know I don’t blame you for that,” Vriska says.  
  
“Still,” you say. Something throbs at the base of your skull, sending jolts of pain through your nervous system. The memory of you killing her is sharp and vivid, cloying and poisonous on your tongue, and what’s worse—it’s a memory of defiance, and your instinct to _obey_ is rumbling in fury. It sends a frisson of fear tingling through you, and you counter it by calling forth something deeper: your abilities as a Sgrub player.  
  
But it’s hard without a specific, life-shatteringly important task to focus on, and the lines of power that were beginning to gather are scattered the moment a stray thought crosses your mind.  
  
Vriska is frowning at you, concerned. “Terezi? Is everything alright? I didn’t mean to—”  
  
“So you expect me to talk about what’s bothering me, but you won’t say a word about what’s bothering you?”  
  
“I was just trying to be helpful!”  
  
“Well, one helpful thing for you to do is to not provoke Ampora too much in the next few hours,” you say. “I don’t have a full picture right now, but the Seer power flash I had when I talked to him last made it clear that making him suspicious is a bad idea.”  
  
“Does cutting off his fins and tossing them into the incinerator count as suspicious?”  
  
There’s a warning beep and the door swings open. Eridan marches in, glittering all over in obnoxious seadweller jewelry. The door swings closed behind him, and you become acutely aware that the designated meeting room the three of you are occupying is small and enclosed, and he’s standing between you and the exit.  
  
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Vriska drawls.  
  
Sometimes you wonder why you’re dating someone so hopelessly clichéd.  
  
Eridan sneers. “Admiral Serket. I wondered if you had time to conch-sider my suggestion.”  
  
“Suggestion?”  
  
Eridan tosses you an irritated look. “I guess Pyrope isn’t the most organized o’ assistants. I messaged you to ask if we could meet in a private place because I had a request. I was hopin’ you would assist me in trackin’ down the sorry excuses for trolls that call themselves the Sufferists.”  
  
“Uh, sorry,” says Vriska, “but last I checked, that was _your_ job, not mine.”  
  
“But it’s in your best finterests,” Eridan says. “Since I’m guessin’ her imperious condescension wouldn’t be happy if she found out our ol’ wrigglerhood pals are involved in high treason and you aren’t doin’ anyfin about it.”  
  
Vriska sneaks a glance toward you. You raise your eyebrows and nod slightly, trying to convey _Go along with it_ with your ocular orbs and hoping Eridan is too oblivious to catch on.  
  
“I don’t think I need to underestimate the importance of keepin’ this on the down low,” Eridan says.  
  
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” says Vriska. “I just don’t know how you expect me to help. I don’t have any ties to that investigation. I can’t drop what I’m doing and go and track down leads. I have a _job_ , Ampora.”  
  
“I’m not askin’ much,” he says. “Make some inquiries. The empress took your advice on subliminal broadcastin’ techniques, didn’t she? She’d trust you enough to give you access to the investigation into rebel cells in the Fleet. I know there’s been headway on huntin’ them down on the military side, but they won’t hand over that information.”  
  
“You want me to give military secrets to a civilian? Fuck you.”  
  
“Come on, Vris, this—”  
  
“Don’t call me that,” she says. “I’ll help hunt them down, but I’m not giving out classified information. Now, if you were to come up with a specific thing you need to know in order to get this done, I _might_ let it slip, if it didn’t compromise our security. But otherwise, I don’t see why I need to be involved in this.”  
  
“Fine,” says Eridan. “But—”  
  
“Not interested,” Vriska says flatly. “Troll me when you’ve found something I need to pay attention to.” She turns her back on him and walks toward the door.  
  
Eridan steps forward, fins twitching. He smells of urgency and anticipation. “Serket, wait. Don’t you want to hear what I’ve found?”  
  
Vriska stills. You finger your cane anxiously. You already know about his suspicions about Sollux, Karkat, Kanaya, and Nepeta, and you told Vriska, but you’re worried that he’s found something new to pin on them—something you can’t protect them from.  
  
Eridan takes out a husktablet and sets it on the table. Vriska reluctantly steps away from the door and peers at the screen. You see her swallow, gaze orbs widening, and then she crosses her arms and acts unaffected. “And what’s that supposed to be?”  
  
“That’s what they call the First Book of the Iron Infidel,” he says. “I bet you recognize the verse.”  
  
You lean over and give the screen a thorough licking. It’s a text document, written in red on a black background. Eridan’s highlighted a specific passage: _The path to truth is not found in blindly following the lies of the government, but in questioning what you are told._  
  
“It’s the words the Sufferists flashed on the imperial newsfeeds during that security breach,” says Vriska. “So, what, that’s the book it was from?”  
  
He curls his lip. “Yeah, it is. See, when I woke up an’ got my memories back, I looked into what kind of heresy the rebels were preachin’. I went an’ talked to some clowns, and you don’t know how tirin’ that experience was, but it turns out the lowbloods have been passin’ along texts like these. They don’t know how many there are. There are a few others they’ve found—the Fourth, the Fifth, the Seventh—an’ they’ve only just managed to get their appendages on this one.”  
  
You keep track of Eridan’s body language, desperate for a clue as to what he’s thinking, because this conversation is going in a dangerous direction. You know that there are twelve books of the Iron Infidel, the twelve holy texts of the Sufferists, because Sollux gave you them sweeps ago. He borrowed another server so that he couldn’t be traced, gave you anti-surveillance software to guard your husktop from imperial spying, and then you downloaded the files and read them in secret. You deleted them right after. That’s more or less the process by which the texts have spread through the empire. The Fifth Book through the Ninth Book detail the Sufferer’s rebellion and the Summoner’s rebellion—an antidote to imperial propaganda. The First Book is a collection of religious and anti-empire proverbs.  
  
You know those words he’s highlighted. You’ve never been religious, but the political side is a different matter, and besides, it’s Kanaya’s favorite passage. Chapter two, verse eighteen. From _Chains_ , the fifth part of the First Book.  
  
“Okay, so you found their book thing,” says Vriska. “That’s… uh… interesting, but I don’t see what it has to do with me.”  
  
Eridan smirks. “Don’t you wanna know where this came from?”  
  
Vriska rolls her gaze orbs.  
  
“It was found on the grub drive of a husktop belonging to one Private Jilari,” says Eridan. “Last stationed aboard the _Cerulean Glory_. You remember her, right? Rustblood? Kinda skinny? You chopped off her hatefriend’s heads a few nights ago?”  
  
Vriska considers that, then shrugs. “Huh. Okay.”  
  
Eridan is insulted. “What do you mean, _okay_? Extremely dangerous rebel propaganda was found on your ship!”  
  
“Well, if she tries anything else they’ll know where to find her, right?” Vriska says. “And come on, this isn’t that dangerous.” She flicks the husktablet. “It’s just a bunch of weird sayings.”  
  
“It legitimizes it,” he says. “It makes it normal, makes them feel as if they’re not strugglin’ alone. It makes it _relatable_. It makes trolls think that somethin’ can go against the word of her imperious condescension and still be true.”  
  
Meanwhile, you are frantically searching your memory. You filled out all the paperwork for the impromptu executions, and there was nothing about an investigation of the private’s belongings, especially not an investigation conducted by subjugglators. Was she interrogated? What happened to her? Why weren’t you told?  
  
You think you know the answer: your security clearance wasn’t high enough. As Vriska’s Second, there’s only one security level higher than your own. This information must be restricted to the Condesce and her inner circle alone.  
  
Eridan sighs in a put-upon manner. “Alright, I suppose it was too much to expect for someone like you to appreciate the finer points o’ propaganda warfare. Accordin’ to the gossip mags you’re more of a slice-an’-dice kinda troll. You probably won’t care that under interrogation, Jilari revealed the names of her movement’s fuckin’ ringleaders.”  
  
Vriska is still acting bored. You know you should follow her lead, but you can’t stop yourself from blurting out, “Ringleaders?”  
  
There are adherents to the Sufferist gospel across the empire, in ever niche and cranny, living out their ordinary, harmless lives and whispering heresy behind closed doors. Some lash out in frustration and anger, and sometimes they get away with it and sometimes they get killed. The majority have never spoken to your friends or anyone remotely associated with them, so it hadn’t occurred to you that maybe Jilari did.  
  
Eridan grins smugly—he always did love an audience. He pulls up another document on the husktablet and hands it to you. It’s a transcript.  
  
[INTERVIEWER NAME REDACTED]: Who gave you orders?  
PRIVATE MAREAH JILARI: No one.  
[REDACTED]: For the record, I am now applying psychic manipulation to the subject.  
PVT. M. J.: [unintelligible screaming]  
[REDACTED]: Try again.  
PVT. M. J.: No one — I just — [unintelligible]  
[REDACTED]: My darling, this not need be difficult. You will be spared the worst if you comply now.  
PVT. M. J.: You fucking liar, she already killed my ashmate, I’ll, I’ll fucking [unintelligble]  
[REDACTED]: For the record, the subject is unusually resistant. Likely a byproduct of recent grief clouding the mental landscape. I am now applying further psychic pressure.  
PVT. M. J.: [unintelligible screaming]  
[REDACTED]: Who gave you the orders?  
PVT. M. J.: No, no, we were alone, we were just angry, we did, we did it by ourselves — we —  
[REDACTED]: Who is in charge? Who are the leaders?  
PVT. M. J.: I don’t know, I don’t, I swear, please.  
[REDACTED]: But you know something. I feel it lurking in your mind. Tell me.  
PVT. M. J.: Please — I don’t know I swear — we only ever whispered their names —  
[REDACTED]: Who?  
PVT. M. J.: The Defender, they call him the Defender — they’re coming to free us, the Defender and the Luminary.  
[REDACTED]: Those aren’t imperially recognized titles. Who are they? Where are they? What are their aims?  
PVT. M. J.: [unintelligible] We’re not even sure they’re real.  
[REDACTED]: Where did you hear of them?  
PVT. M. J.: […]  
[REDACTED]: For the record, it appears that the subject has lapsed into unconsciousness. Interrogation will resume at a later date.  
  
You set down the device, and the fear gathering in the pit of your stomach dissipates. That’s nothing that puts your friends in immediate danger. But it does raise more questions than it answers. You hand it to Vriska so she can read through the transcript.  
  
When she finishes, she says, “Okay, but that doesn’t sound like ‘naming the ringleaders’ to me. These two guys sound more like mythological figures than anything.”  
  
“Defender and Luminary,” you think aloud. “Defender of what? And the Luminary—that means a person who inspires and influences others. Or just a light source, but I don’t think…” An idea prickles at the back of your mind, but it escapes you for now. You shake your head. “In any case, this tells us nothing. I could refer to anyone. It might not have anything to do with the other Sgrub players.”  
  
“Maybe,” he says. He directs his words at Vriska even though he's answering your comment, probably out of some fucked-up sense of hierarchy. “Or the rust could’ve been talkin’ about the spy.”  
  
“The spy?” asks Vriska.  
  
“Cod, do you have any logical thinkin’ skills? O’ _course_ there’s a spy. When that propaganda trick showed up on the newsfeeds, the Condesce sent cullin’ drones after the rebel base, but the fuckers had already cleared out by the time they got there. That sound like a coincidence to you? They thought it was more hacking, but they were thorough, and there wasn’t even a trace.”  
  
Not even a trace, because Karkat evacuated in time. Not even a trace, because Vriska warned him.  
  
“It had to be a different kind of leak,” Eridan says. “It had to be a troll.”  
  
“But this is your only lead, right?” says Vriska. “This interrogation, of Jilari, this is all you have.” Thank gog, the horrorterrors, the Sufferer and any other entity that may be listening that Eridan is too busy being pleased at his own intelligence to notice her desperate tone.  
  
“More or less. Y’know, I thought it was you, at first, or at least your meeker half.” He shrugs nonchalantly in your direction. “But then I found out what you’ve been doin’ for the empire all these sweeps, and I thought, no way. An’ it couldn’t’ve been Pyrope, ‘cause imperial Auxiliary conditionin’ is practically infallible. So it has to be someone else.”  
  
You think quickly, trying to map out the routes this conversation could take. “Okay, but the spy issue sounds like something we don’t need to worry about,” you say, as calm as you can. “Since we’ve ruled out the involvement of our… targets.”  
  
“I don’t know,” says Eridan. “It all seems to come back to the twelve of us, doesn’t it?”  
  
And then—sudden as a curtain dropping over the world—the lights go out.  
  
Vriska and Eridan flinch. The scent of dread and shock fills your sniffer and the air tastes like darkness, and only then do you realize what has happened. Your jolt of surprise is a moment late. Disbelief follows on its heels. You can’t be having a blackout. This is the Battleship Condescension, the flagship, helmed by the most powerful psionic in millennia. The power can’t have gone out. It’s not possible.  
  
“W-What’s happenin’?” Eridan’s accent is exaggerated by fear. You can smell him trembling.  
  
“Shut up,” Vriska says. She draws her sword from her strife specibus and stands with it outstretched before her, rigid with tension. Her ocular orbs dart wildly—it’s so dark that she’s left blinded.  
  
“I can’t see anythin’—has the power failed? W-Why w-would—”  
  
“I said shut up,” says Vriska.  
  
Eridan’s voice rises hysterically. “How dare you order me around, I will _not_ shut up, I—”  
  
“We are _under attack,_ you fucking idiot, so shut your fucking mouth and do what I say.”  
  
Her voice is edged like a blade. He falls speechless, and your conditioning rises up and chokes your throat into silence, presses down on your lungs, stops you from breathing. Your body quivers and huddles into itself without your permission. When the terror of _obeyobeyobey_ passes, for a moment you don’t think about how the Condesce’s ship is supposed to be impenetrable and _how_ and _what is happening_ , you are solely filled with relief that Vriska couldn’t see you like that.  
  
“We’re not dead of suffocation and the gravity field is working, so the life support functions aren’t gone,” says Vriska in a whisper. “But the lights are pretty damn essential and we didn’t get any warning, so it looks like we’re in deep shit. Terezi, are your Seer powers giving you any idea who is attacking us?”  
  
“No,” you croak, throat slightly bruised. It’s not a set of future choices to extrapolate from, so it isn’t a task a Seer of Mind can help with.  
  
“Fuck,” she says, and there’s a part of you that cringes and berates yourself for your failure even though you know you can’t help it. “You can still smell your way around, right? It’s black as spades in here.”  
  
“Yes,” you say. You approach her cautiously, minding the sword she holds, and grip her free hand.  
  
She squeezes back, and relief surges through you. She says, “I need you to get us to the throne room.”  
  
You don’t need to ask why she wants to go there. It’s the most likely place for the empress to be, other than her private quarters, and if the Condesce dies, the Alternian Empire will collapse. “The elevators are probably stalled,” you say.  
  
“I can fly us through the elevator shaft,” she says. “Alright, Ampora, here’s what’s going to happen. Terezi’s going to guide us, and we’re all going to hold hands and play nice, and if Terezi tells you to do something, you do it, because otherwise we might end up dead. Got that?”  
  
“I will not take orders from a—”  
  
“Fishfucker, I am _this close_ to leaving you here to fend for yourself,” Vriska snarls. He shuts up. She reaches out and feels around until she grabs his upper appendage, nearly slicing his throat with her weapon in the process. “Terezi, you ready?”  
  
“Ready.”

You guide her to the door. She waits as you smell outside.  
  
Nothing.  
  
There are no alien soldiers ready to bust down the door. There are no panicked personnel stumbling in the corridor. The luxuriously carpeted hallway is empty, which you suppose makes sense, since the three of you are in a quiet meeting block in the vast officers-only part of the ship. You are the only ones as far as you can sniff. “We’re alone.”  
  
“Right,” says Vriska. “Let’s go.”  
  
You creep outside and move swiftly down the hall. Your perception is mostly fine but there’s a muted-ness that comes with the darkness, so you focus on taking in every smell you can. You smell Eridan’s fear, and your moirail’s as well, although she hides it better. There’s an alertness to her scent that you haven’t noticed before—this is what she’s like on the battlefield. There’s your own fear, of course, a constant backdrop ebbing with the frantic beat of your pusher. _What’s going on? There hasn’t been a successful attack on the Battleship Condescension in millennia—not unless you include the way John and Jade rescued Rose and Dave_ —but you push those thoughts down. You can't overanalyze right now.  
  
And finally, there's an acrid tang hanging in the air. Like something burning.  
  
You guide the other two by the grasping appendage around a corner and toward the nearest elevator. The doors are closed, and Vriska orders Eridan to take one side while she takes the other. “Put those seadweller muscles to use for once,” she says, and they pry the doors open, revealing the chasm where an elevator might have been.  
  
“We're headed for the top floor,” says Vriska. “Any obstacles?”  
  
The elevator is halted several floors below, out of the way. Above, you smell nothing but emptiness, going on for an impossibly long length. “All clear,” you tell her.  
  
“Good.” Then she tosses her sword back into her strife deck, grips you around the waist, snags Eridan’s shoulder, and launches herself upward.  
  
The seadweller yelps in shock, and you concentrate on not throwing up from the violent change in speed. It’s not gentle like when Vriska carried you in her arms earlier this night. You hurtle upwards, the wind whisking away your sense of smell, and you cry out, “Slow down!” when you think you might be about to smash into the top of the elevator shaft. Vriska halts in midair and you catch a whiff of the door to the throne room on your left.  
  
She huffs, and then flies toward the shut elevator doors with both boots forward, crunching through the steel barrier. The three of you tumble in a heap in the foyer, breathing heavily. Vriska hauls you upright, and then...  
  
“Oh,” you say quietly.  
  
The Condesce stands in the throne room. She has her 2x3dent is pressed to the neck of the smaller figure that stands before her, and the other troll is unarmored and weaponless, but despite that, it’s the _empress_ whose fins flutter in fear.  
  
You recognize that acrid, electric smell now. It’s the smell of psionics out of control.  
  
And you recognize that solitary figure. You don’t recognize the halo of sparks, the crackle of energy. But you recognize that stance, that stare, unafraid in the face of destruction.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to write _so much_ in eridan's accent. it was awful.
> 
> i guess the relevance of the chapter title to the chapter content is pretty obvious. but i suppose it also has a double meaning: "ere my vision grows too weak" is from the final stanza, where the speaker is saying they're having difficulty seeing the way (metaphorically and literally), and they're looking to the stars/a higher power for guidance, which relates to a few plot threads in this chapter.
> 
> a few songs i listened to while writing the last part of this chapter:
> 
>  
> 
> ["The Tyger" by Ockham's Razor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HdqreeZ70jw)  
> ["I Will Never Die" by Delta Rae](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ieUQxZQXrg)


	17. if none should do my reaping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe it's been over a year since i first started posting this fic. and i'm only about halfway done!

It’s Aradia.  
  
Your name is Vriska Serket, and that’s…. that’s _Aradia._  
  
The dark presses in on all sides, black as tar, but she is illuminated by sparks. The bioelectricity arcs over her head, curls around her horns, radiates in waves from her body. Aradia’s dark red eyes glitter in the sparks’ lone light. They flicker around the prongs of 2x3dent digging into her jugular vein, dancing along the imperial red metal, leading back to where the Condesce holds the weapon in clenched hands. In the light of the sparks gathering around the empress’s face, you see her fins flinching in the manner that you recognize as fear and confusion.  
  
Their eyes are locked onto each other and they don’t look away. They haven’t even noticed you’re here.  
  
The roots of your hair stand on end.  
  
“What _are_ you,” hisses the Condesce.  
  
“I am your death,” says Aradia. Then she laughs. “Kind of overdramatic, right? But it’s the truth.”  
  
The Condesce moves as if to skewer her with the 2x3dent, but the skein of sparks in the air solidifies and freezes the weapon in place. “I don’t die,” says the empress in a low, ugly voice. “I can’t die.”  
  
“Wrong.”  
  
“If I die, then—”  
  
“Then a whole bunch of consequences, probably,” Aradia says. “But death doesn’t work like that! It doesn’t decide not to happen just because there might be consequences.”  
  
She smiles. The Condesce’s painted lips twist in a snarl.  
  
“What the fuck,” whispers Eridan. “What the fuck… is that… how is she… _psionics?_ ”  
  
You hate to admit it, but he has a point. How the hell is she using psionics? You don’t remember her powers working like that. And these psionics are insane—you’ve never heard of a single troll being powerful enough to interfere with the workings of a ship as fiercely protected as this one. She would have to be powerful enough to break the control of the helmsman over the system, for one thing.  
  
You tell yourself to strategize. You need to get Megido away from the empress before she follows through on her threat, because if she does, the empire will collapse like a house of cheap playing cards. You need to analyze the enemy and find a weakness.  
  
She doesn’t seem to know that you’re there, which is good, because the last thing you want is her attention focused on you. You are a military commander, you have destroyed civilizations, you have killed and killed and killed, but there’s a young, scared part of you that remembers being six sweeps old. You remember how you huddled in your respiteblock, haunted by the ghosts of your victims, the ghosts that came on her orders.  
  
“Megido,” says the empress. Her black cloud of hair moves wildly in the electric current. Her eyes are wild and her razor teeth are bared, harsh and white in the darkness. “But which _one?_ ”  
  
Aradia laughs.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and that is Aradia Megido. It smells like her, like fresh soil and dusty artifacts and bright laughter. But it also smells like something—some _one_ —else.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Your name is             Megido, and  
  
    your            name                you     are  
  
well.  
  
                 it’s a little more complicated than                 that.  
  
        You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and        it’s just so _funny!_      
  
The idea  
      
    that a question like _which one_         could be answered  
  
            so     simply.  
  
                                    You laugh like a shard of  
  
broken glass    has       
  
            split       
  
                    your laugh down the middle.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you have been plunged into blackness.  
  
When the lights go out, you’re in the middle of a conversation with Jade. She’s a little tired after exerting her powers during Vriska’s little ‘demonstration’ a few hours ago, but she’s not as tired as John, who already stayed up all night trying to heal Dave with Jane’s Life powers. Now both John and Dave are conked out on the sleeping-couch-things that your room-slash-prison-cell includes as a substitute for beds.  
  
John’s blue shirt is spattered with Dave’s blood—his lungs stubbornly resisted the healing and there was a moment where you were worried that he wouldn’t wake up, that Dave would die justly for the crime of aiding in the enslavement of a sentient species. (It was one of those rare moments where both Dirk’s emotions and yours were in perfect alignment. _No, please, not my brother,_ you thought desperately, and you forgot which ‘you’ was speaking.) But he made it through, and it looks as if he fell asleep with the borrowed computer open. Probably speaking to Karkat over Trollian.  
  
“They’re like us, Rose,” says Jade, voice low. “The Drinerus are sentient. They have literature, they use technology, they raise children. We killed them. That’s on us now.”  
  
“I know,” you say.  
  
She puts her chin in her hands. “Have you had any more reports about what’s happening back home?”  
  
You shake your head. The last report you were sent was about a week ago, with descriptions of troop withdrawals and satellite photos of drone-free expanses of land. There was even a letter: an extremely confused missive from one of your old lieutenants in the Society of the Crossed Needles, stating the current situation of the rehabilitation efforts and including a coded message inquiring into your whereabouts and safety. You sent a message to the Condesce asking if you could reply to him, but she hasn’t responded.  
  
“I just want to be reassured that all this is worth it,” says Jade. She hunches her shoulders. “I keep thinking that maybe we should have fought harder or something. Refused to give in. Because it would compromise our morals or whatever. It would have been noble, I guess.”  
  
“Being noble is a luxury. We didn’t have a choice,” you say. “On Earth, it was only a matter of time before we were wiped out. This is a chance at saving humankind. Besides, you and Dave were injured, and…” You trail off.  
  
Jade frowns. “It’s always Dave that gets hurt, isn’t it? Why is that?”  
  
“He keeps jumping in front of the rest of us,” you say, and your throat nearly closes up. “He’s careless because he thinks we’re more important. He has no sense of self-worth. One day he’s going to get himself killed, and—” You can’t speak any longer.  
  
Jade leans forward. “Rose, it’s gonna be okay, alright? We can do this. We’ve made it through everything else.”  
  
“Okay,” you say.  
  
That’s when it goes dark.  
  
There’s a beat of silence. Then Jade says, “What the hell?”  
  
You snap into motion. You navigate your way to the sleeping couch, where the meager glow of the husktop on Dave’s chest pierces faintly through the blackness. You shake Dave until he makes an “uh?” sound and begins to stir, then do the same to John.  
  
You hear Jade’s breathing pick up speed. “Rose, what’s going on?”  
  
“No idea,” you say grimly. “Do spaceships get power outages?”  
  
“Not unless it involves vital support systems breaking down and all the inhabitants getting sucked out an airlock.” She pauses. “Shit.”  
  
John jumps up, nearly bowling you over in the darkness, and flails. “I’m awake I’m awake!” he says. “Wait, why is it so dark?”  
  
You hear Dave sit up. “Hell,” he says groggily. “Did I go blind?”  
  
_Rose,_ says Dirk’s voice inside your head.  
  
_What?_ you snap back. _I’m trying to concentrate—_  
  
_Look inside yourself,_ he says urgently, and you pause. It’s not like him to give that kind of advice frivolously. You take a moment to relax your muscles, as difficult as it is under stress, and focus on blocking out your senses.  
  
Inside you, something is shifting. It’s reaching out.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and your mind is whirling.  
  
“Broken glass,” Megido is saying. “It makes sense because there’s a shard of _something_ inside me! It’s pinning the three of us together, like a thumbtack going right through our souls. I didn’t have a body until a few nights ago. Or, I should say, none of us did. One of us was a ghost, one of us was a shade of a memory, and one of us was more of an idea than anything else, really.”  
  
A shard. If she means what you think she means—  
  
“I guess I could keep on saying ‘us’, if I wanted,” says Megido conversationally. “But I’m one person now. It hurts. There are bits of each of us that got hacked off, you know, parts of our personalities and beliefs and memories, so that we would all fit inside this form, and I’m still not sure which bits are missing. How could I tell? Maybe if I focused on being _me_ instead, it wouldn’t hurt so much. I just need a name. What name should I have? What do you think, Meenah?”  
  
“That’s not my name,” the empress says.  
  
“But you are called Meenah, aren’t you? Not just that little part of you that remembers Beforus. You, in this world, before you took the throne—there were people who called you Meenah.”  
  
“ _That’s not my name_ ,” the empress snarls.  
  
Beside you, Vriska is tense. She squeezes your frond and lets go. Then, faster than you thought possible, she drops her sword into her strife specibus, replaces it with a blaster, and shoots.  
  
The shot should have gone straight through Megido’s skull, but it doesn’t. It’s like she’s made of mist. Her body dissolves into a wisp of shadow and the shot passes through. It hurtles toward the Condesce instead. She twitches her head to the side—it only singes a lock of her hair.  
  
There’s a great lurch of sparks and the empress and her weapon are bodily flung away from Megido. The empress crashes into the far wall and tumbles to the floor. She leaps up a second later, but a cloud of crackling psionics holds her back.  
  
Meanwhile, Megido is becoming corporeal again. She turns toward the three of you crouching in the entryway. “Oh, I didn’t see you there! I didn’t even know you were onboard. Hello. And there’s only one soul inside each of you. How interesting.” She looks at Vriska. “Don’t try to shoot me again. It won’t work.”  
  
Vriska’s glare is fierce and calculating. Eridan is apparently struck dumb with shock.  
  
You find yourself stepping forward, because it looks like you’re the only who will.  
  
“Why are you here?” you say. You’re buying time to think.  
  
“I could say the same for you. How did you get here? I blocked all the entrances and exits with my powers.” Her gaze lands on the crumpled metal behind you. “Oh! I see. I forgot the elevator doors.”  
  
“But why are you here?” you repeat.  
  
“To kill her,” she says, nodding toward the Condesce.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why not? She’s evil,” says Megido. “She’s the greatest killer in this universe, you know. She has more victims than any other single sentient being since time began.” She tilts her head. “I can’t feel time ticking by anymore. I think I miss that. It was like a second pusher-beat.”  
  
“If she dies, it’ll call in the Vast Glub."  
  
“No. I can feel it, you see? It won’t. Not while the Heiress lives.”  
  
She’s smiling. She smells like psionic sparks, but she also smells like anger and compassion, and for a moment, you consider it. You consider letting her turn the 2x3dent around and spear it through the Condesce’s stomach. You consider allowing her to eliminate the root cause of every bit of pain and suffering you have felt in sweeps.  
  
But then reason returns, and you remember that the empire is a delicate system of a million moving parts that relies on the strength and constancy of the throne, that it has never before weathered a change in rulers, and that if you removed the power at the top, it all would crumble.  
  
“There would be chaos,” you say. “There could be riots, starvation—innocents would die.”  
  
“There’s chaos and suffering whenever death happens. It’s not something you can avoid in the long run. Like, for example, I could kill Vriska right now! It might be best. It’s likely that she would keep on hurting people if I let her keep going.” Her smile widens just a bit too far, sharp and unnerving, the way you never could tell if it was intentional or not. “But those people would probably be hurt no matter what, so then I have to ask: is their suffering inevitable?”  
  
Vriska tightens her grip on her weapon. “You can try—I’ll kill you first.”  
  
“I can’t die,” says Megido simply.  
  
“What, ‘cause you’re godtier? In that case, I’ll just have to kill you over and over and over again until you get the message.”  
  
“I can’t die. At all.”  
  
Vriska scoffs. “Oh, trust me, I can—”  
  
You pull her toward you. “ _That’s the Handmaid_ ,” you hiss.  
  
She goes still.  
  
“She’s right, you know,” says Megido. “It’s like I’ve been trying to say: I can’t die! It would be like asking a hammer to smash its own handle, or using a ruler to measure itself.”  
  
“But,” says Vriska, voice tinged with disbelief, “but—but—the Handmaid doesn’t even exist, she’s just a _story_.”  
  
“But she did exist, sort of,” Megido says. “The myth of the Demoness referred to a real troll, once upon a time, and after a while it was just an idea that people had. She didn’t actually go around taking souls. You see, the thing about death and tragedy is that they don’t really make sense. They just happen! But the thing is, trolls believed in her, and belief is pretty powerful. And now there’s a broken-off piece of something inside me, and all that belief is even more powerful than it was before.”  
  
“A broken piece of something,” you say slowly. “A shard of the Game.”  
  
She turns her ganderbulbs on you. Her gaze is as intense and searing as the sun that burned away your sight. The smile is gone. “You know about this.”  
  
You open your facegash to say that yes, you do. But then the darkness is suffused by a greenish energy that only you can sense.  
  
Choices spread out before you in webs of fine light. The world twists and turns, and you can’t pinpoint the precise reason why, but you are suddenly and immutably sure that admitting your role in her current mental distress would be a very, _very_ bad idea.  
  
“No,” you say. “I—I don’t know anything.”  
  
She advances on you, power crackling in the air. Your skin prickles with the current. “You’re lying.”  
  
Her voice is flat and dangerous, and you find yourself stumbling backward. “But!” you say quickly.  
  
“But what?”  
  
You take a breath. “But I know somebody who does.”  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Your name is Dave Strider, and Rose is crumpled on her knees. Her face is pale and shocked and she’s trembling all over. She’s bending over and clutching her stomach, but she doesn’t look pained, at least as far as you can tell in the dim light, more like she’s trying to grasp something.  
  
“What’s going on?” you say, looking between Jade and John. You’re hoping desperately that they know what’s going on and how to fix Rose, because you sure as fuck don’t.  
  
There’s a whoosh and a sphere of gently whirling air surrounds the four of you. “What are you doing?” you ask John.  
  
“Securing us some breathable atmosphere in case everything goes kablooey,” he says. He looks exhausted in the dim light of the computer screen.  
  
“Rose,” says Jade, leaning down and touching her shoulder, “Rose, Rose, Rose, what’s happening, are you okay, you have to talk to us—”  
  
“It’s calling out,” Rose says suddenly. “There’s another one.”  
  
“Another what?”  
  
“There’s another one, Jade,” Rose babbles. “There are more of them—I didn’t realize—”  
  
You step forward, between where Jade is leaning down beside her and where John stands with his hands out, maintaining the bubble of air. “Another what?” you ask, hating the way your voice shakes.  
  
“Another shard,” Rose says, and then goes abruptly silent.  
  
“Of the Game?” you say.  
  
She doesn’t answer.  
  
Jade swallows and looks at you. “Alright, so there’s a shard of the Game somewhere, and it’s calling out to Rose. Looks like it’s on this ship and it’s what’s causing the blackout. It’s probably a danger. We have to protect her.”  
  
“How?” you ask. “It’s tearing her up on the inside.”  
  
“I’m betting there’s a physical vessel too, and it’s probably out to get us,” says Jade. “It would match up with the rest of our luck so far. I say we get ready for when it comes.”  
  
“It’s already come for Rose,” you say. All your exhaustion and worry pours out in your voice.  
  
“Dirk will help her.”  
  
_Can he?_ asks Roxy from inside your mind. _That’s kind of outside our field of experience._  
  
“Roxy isn’t so sure about that,” you say.  
  
Jade’s expression hardens. “Dirk will help her,” she repeats. She wraps an arm around Rose’s shoulders and whispers something comforting in her ear.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Your name is Vriska Serket, and the Handmaid herself is ten inches from your palemate’s face.  
  
(The Handmaid. The literal Handmaid. This is the real life Handmaid and she’s already threatened your life once tonight—)  
  
“I know somebody who does,” Terezi says. Her short hair drifts and dances in the air with the electricity of Megido’s sparks. You know how to read her emotions: she’s scared, but she’s planning something. You wish like fuck you knew what it was.  
  
“Who,” says the Handmaid. The sparks flare up brighter and the darkness that crowds around her seems to deepen. Her eyes gleam in the flickering light like crimson suns glowing in the shadows between the stars.  
  
“Rose Lalonde,” says Terezi.  
  
“And what would she know?”  
  
“You’ll have to talk to her.”  
  
“You think she could fix this? She could make it stop hurting?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” says Terezi. Her body is practically vibration with tension.  
  
“Then at least she could tell me the reason this happened to me,” says the Handmaid.  
  
Terezi hesitates a second too long, because the Handmaid’s mouth twitches. “I see!” she says brightly, although what exactly she _sees_ in this conversation is unclear from where you’re standing. “I can tell that she’s close by. How about we pay her a visit?”  
  
“Um,” starts Terezi, but she doesn’t get a chance to finish. The Handmaid reaches for her, and in a final flash of sparks, they dissolve into the dark.  
  
You’re in motion as soon as you realize what’s happening—you move faster than you’ve ever moved in your life—but you’re not fast enough. You see Terezi’s mouth open in shock, to shout or to scream, but the sound is whisked away when the Handmaid sweeps her claws to the side. Your grasping appendage goes through the wisps of shadowy mist where their bodies used to be.  
  
The tang of ozone vanishes from the air just as the lights switch on. You yowl and cover your eyes, temporarily blinded, and by the time you’ve blinked the spots from your vision, they’re both gone.  
  
There’s a long, awful moment where you look at the place that used to contain your moirail while the dread rises in your throat. This isn’t good. The Handmaid doesn’t sound happy about being a kabob skewer of three trolls with vastly different personalities, and you don’t think she’ll react well when she finds out about Terezi’s role in the fracturing of Paradox Space.  
  
Steel-toed boots click across the floor.  
  
“Whale, whale, whale,” says the empress. “There’s al-wave somefin, isn’t there?”  
  
You jerk back. You had completely forgot she was there.  
  
She looks disturbed. She’s standing with the same confident pose she always has, but there are singe marks along the edge of her right fin, and she’s gripping her 2x3dent so hard that the black chitin on her knuckles is almost gray.  
  
A few feet away, Eridan is cowering against a wall. You don’t waste time glancing at him.  
  
“Is Lalonde still in that block a few floors down?” you ask.  
  
“Yeah, she is,” says the empress, “but Pyrope’s not our priority right now. We have to—”  
  
You never learn what she thinks you have to do. You’re already out the door.


	18. the one i leave behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter takes place in the past, and it's from sollux's perspective. i kind of wanted to postpone sollux's backstory, but it turned out to be absolutely necessary for the main storyline that certain characterization details come to light now rather than later. the chapter after this one, however, will continue with vriska and terezi where ch. 17 left off. (and there's some pre-relationship vrisrezi in this chapter, too!) 
> 
> BUT: because this is sollux, there is going to a SECOND chapter that also takes place in the past and is from sollux's perspective. i can't say when exactly i'm going to finish writing it and insert it into the plotline, since i don't yet know where it would be most strategic for the narrative, but it is definitely a thing that is happening.
> 
> WARNINGS: death, grief and mourning, and discussion of helmsman issues.

Your name is Sollux Captor, you are four sweeps old, and you do not yet know what a helmsman is.  
  
Well, you know what a helmsman is, in the general sense, but you also… don’t. You know that ships can travel faster than light because they are powered by trolls with special powers. You’ve picked up that much. But at this point in your wrigglerhood you’re too young to understand much of anything, and you haven’t actually connected the dots. You don’t yet know what will be expected of you once Conscription comes.  
  
You start to figure it out because of Feferi.  
  
One thing you do understand is blood. You know what your blood means and you know what Aradia’s blood means, and when you see FF’s text color, you think she’s screwing with you, because you know what that means too.  
  
\-- cuttlefishCuller [CC] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA] \--  
  
CC: )(I T)(-----ER--E!!!!!!  
  
You squint at the screen. _Dark blue,_ you think. _Maybe even violet. Maybe. There’s a tiny chance that it’s violet._ You don’t even consider the possibility that your gaze orbs are not, in fact, lying to you, because that would mean your first thought is correct and this troll really is typing in fuchsia. You’re pretty sure drones are required to cull people who play at being fuchsia.  
  
Color and fish-themed trolltag aside, there is no possible way that this is a real seadweller. You’ve never even met anyone whose blood is higher than green, and you can't think of any plausible reasons why any of them would want to meet you, either.  
  
The only question left is who the fuck gave them your trollian handle.  
  
TA: pardon me for a2kiing but who the hell are you.  
CC: IM F----EF-ERI!!  
TA: 2tiill not riingiing any bell2, 2orry.  
CC: Im a frond of a frond, silly!  
CC: Or maybe a frond of a frond of a frond.  
CC: )(---E)(-E)(-E.  
CC: 38)  
TA: who ii2 thii2 frond agaiin.  
TA: ii mean friiend.  
CC: Youre Aradias friend, rig)(t? Sollux?  
TA: are you 2eriiou2ly telliing me that AA gave you my handle  
TA: how do you know her?  
CC: FLARPing, of course!!!!!  
CC: Its not R---E-ELY my t)(ing but Eridan likes it. T)(ats )(ow )(e knows Aradia and Tavros.  
  
You stare at the chat log for a while, dumbstruck. Then you open up another window and contact Aradia.  
  
\-- twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling  apocalypseArisen [AA] \--  
  
TA: hey AA can we talk. liike riight now.  
AA: sure what about???  
  
What follows is an incredibly exhausting conversation in which Aradia explains a fucking ton of shit, like who exactly are the people she’s been meeting during her lethal roleplaying games and how she has conveniently forgotten to mention that some of them are seadwellers.  
  
TA: 2eadweller2?  
TA: 2EADWELLER2??  
AA: calm down!  
  
Calm down? Calm _down?_  
  
You’re sparking all over your husktop, so you force yourself to walk around and take a breather. Your episodes of anger aren’t as bad as they will become in the future, but they’re significant even now.  
  
AA: sorry! i kind of forgot that feferi had asked to talk to you. shes really chatty.  
AA: i think she doesnt have a lot of friends.  
TA: 2he type2 iin viiolet.  
TA: viiolet, AA.  
TA: ii thiink you can gue22 how freaked out ii got when ii opened trolliian two that.  
AA: yeah yeah i read you the first time!!  
AA: and its not actually violet.  
TA: oh thank gog  
AA: i mean shes purpler than that.  
TA: iit doe2nt get purpler than viiolet. the only thiing that2 purpler than viiolet ii2 tyriian.  
AA: um…  
  
It takes a while for you to believe her, but the truth is that it doesn’t take much. For all your bluster, you can't even imagine distrusting Aradia. The pamphlets imperial schoolfeeding regulations make you read say that rustbloods have the least mental ability of all the castes, but that doesn’t make sense, because Aradia’s the smartest person you know. She always seems to hear of everything before anyone else.

She even hears the voices, too. You haven’t been able to figure out why—you don’t even know if the voices are real. All you know is that you hear trolls murmuring about doom and gloom, and then every now and then one of the voices will go away and Aradia will troll you to say that _she’s_ started hearing it.  
  
You think you’re psychically linked. Aradia doesn’t, but she refuses to say what exactly her hypothesis is, even though you know she has one.  
  
TA: waiit 2o iif 2he2 tyriian doe2 that mean 2he2 the heiire22?  
AA: of course dummy!  
AA: what else would it mean?  
TA: 2o doe2nt that mean you 2houldnt be friiend2 wiith her? iif 2he2 2lated for culliing?  
AA: does it really matter?  
  
You don’t know how to respond to that.  
  
AA: were not supposed to have friends outside our blood colors are we?  
AA: and were doing it anyway.  
AA: i like terezi. shes my friend and its super fun playing games with her.  
AA: and eridan is pretty annoying but i met feferi through him so it turns out ok in the end.  
AA: even vriska can be fun sometimes!  
AA: when shes not being snobbish and mean.  
AA: i mean technically i shouldnt even be talking to you like this because youre two rungs higher than me on this stupid meaningless social ladder.  
TA: what are you 2ayiing  
AA: im saying the hemocaste is hoofbeast shit sollux!  
AA: HOOFBEAST SHIT!!!  
  
You open your facegash. Then you close it. Your best hatefriend is committing treason via chatroom as you watch. This can’t possibly be happening.  
  
AA: sorry its just  
AA: you know what im not sorry.  
AA: because heres the thing.  
AA: i know why you and i hear those voices!  
AA: ITS A MUTATION!  
AA: WERE MUTANTS!!!!  
AA: if we dont keep it a secret until conscription well be CULLED!  
AA: and ive been trying not to think about it but its the truth and im so tired of all this.  
  
You blink. It takes a moment for you to process what she’s saying.

Then you quit the program, shut your husktop, and back away from the desk. The sound of your breathing is almost as loud as the voices. And the voices are loud tonight—they seethe, dozens at once, hissing _it hurts it hurts I didn’t mean to why is there so much pain it’s getting dark all of a sudden oh I hope this ends soon…_  
  
You don’t open it back up.  
  
You spend a week doing everything you can to stop thinking about what Aradia has told you.

It can’t be true, can it? You know about mutants. All the instructional school feeds warn you about them. _Spot abnormalities in your hivestem or lawnring?_ they say in playful fonts. _Report it now!_ Accompanied by a cheerful cartoon of a small wriggler peering over their neighbor’s hedges.

You know that mutants have to be eliminated for the good of the empire in the same way that you know that the sun burns in the day and the sky darkens at night. You just never thought it could apply to you.  
  
But how? Your horns might be twinned and your dental alignment might give you a lisp, but shouldn’t your psionic power make up for that? You know you’re powerful. You’ve looked up the growth charts and you think you’re far beyond standard psionic development for your age and blood color, if your ability to psychically move huge slabs of rock for Aradia when she goes tomb-raiding is any indication.  
  
Somehow you don’t think it’ll matter all that much.  
  
You don’t talk to Aradia. You can’t bring yourself to, not when it's clear that she’s been struggling with this alone while you blundered about in blissful idiocy. You can’t believe how stupid you’ve been. Of course she figured it out first—she spends her time digging through the earth to uncover dusty monuments, working for perigees to decipher ancient runes no one cares about, all because she’ll never give up if she thinks knowledge is being held outside her grasp.  
  
You finally cross paths by accident outside your hivestem. She’s just come back from a dig—there are rips in her clothes and dust in her hair.  
  
She sees you and drops what she's holding. Then she tries to gather it all up, becomes flustered, and ends up dropping the entire contents of her sylladex. Then she gives up and puts her appendages on her hips.

“Hi,” she says.  
  
“Uh. Hi,” you say. “I—um.” You hunch your shoulders and shove your grasping appendages in your pockets. You’re four sweeps old and you’ve already reached peak awkward.  
  
“Can I come inside?” she asks, saving you from your social ineptitude.  
  
So you clear out a space in your cramped dwelling area for the two of you to sit, and you spend a long while fidgeting in silence until one of you starts talking and then it all spills out, and you have an overdue talk about what the empire has in store for you.  
  
“Do you really think we'll be culled?” you ask.  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
Hope rises in your throat, sharp and painful. “You’re not sure?”  
  
“They’ll cull me,” she says. She won’t meet your gaze. “If they find out about my psychic abnormalities, anyway. It’s only bluebloods and purplebloods who are allowed to have those, apparently. But it’s not like I’ll be walking up to the drones with a sign that says ‘MUTANT OVER HERE’, so it might be okay. But I don’t know what they’ll do about about you.”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
She looks up, and you realize that she’s crying. “Because your mutation won’t matter,” she says, nearly choking on the words, "if they make you a helmsman.”

 

* * * *

 

You examine the diagrams. Everything is public record, so it’s not hard to find. You think you would have known this already if you had been smart enough to look.

The blueprints are presented neatly, with lines in careful blue and red to demonstrate the power conduits throughout the standard helmsrig, and there's a dotted line to represent the troll inside. You picture it: the twisting of the biowires, how they will feel when they burrow into your skin.  
  
You read the relevant reports even though you can already guess what you’ll find. Once integration with the starship is complete, there is not enough left of the helmstroll’s thinksponge to form coherent thoughts. Not even enough to dream. You wonder if that’s good or bad—you don’t want to feel the pain, but you don’t want to be pan-dead either.  
  
Well, you’ve never been known for your optimism. There isn’t any way to escape this, so you don’t bother trying.  
  
You get better at coding, and that helps, because it’s incredibly satisfying to know that there is at least one thing under your complete control. You and Aradia acquire an interest in doomsday devices, and you code a few end-of-the-world programs that you will never use. There’s something satisfying about that too, and not just because you’re doing it with a friend.  
  
And speaking of friends, by the time you are five and a half sweeps old, you have eleven hatefriends in all colors of the spectrum and by some miracle each and every one of them is exactly as strange as you. (Although nobody can ever be quite as strange as Equius.) You’re pretty sure all of them are going to wash out within a sweep of Conscription, with the possible exception of Eridan and Vriska, although you personally hope Vriska fails out of her training in a spectacular and highly embarrassing fashion that becomes universal joke fodder across the Fleet.  
  
They all think you and Aradia are dating.  
  
“Red or pale?” asks Feferi over a vidchat. She rests her chin on her appendages and grins at you.  
  
“You’re worthe than NP, honethtly,” you say, annoyed. “We’re not anything.”  
  
“Shore you are,” she croons. “Come prawn, you can tell me!”  
  
“There’th nothing to tell. I guethth thometimeth I think about it, but…” You shrug. “We’re jutht friendth. We’re not interethted in anything elthe.”  
  
“Aww. Whale, you have to have a crush on _someone_ , don’t you?”  
  
You use your ninja-like avoidance skills to change the subject.  
  
You feel like everyone is expecting your feelings to develop into pity, but you don’t think it ever will. It’s not like you don’t care about Aradia, because you do—she’s been at your side for as long as you remember, she’s your best friend, she’s as much a part of you as the bones of your thoracic cage. It’s a familiarity that comes with spending so long around each other that you become two halves of a whole. Falling in love has never been a prerequisite.

 

* * * *

 

Vriska tosses Tavros off a cliff.  
  
Aradia gets angry.

 

* * * *

  
  
You try to stop her from retaliating.  
  
TA: youve 2een how dangerou2 2he ii2.  
AA: i cant help it  
AA: she needs to be stopped  
TA: AA  
TA: plea2e  
  
You should’ve known that nothing you say could hold her back. When she makes up her mind, she’s unstoppable.  
  
When it happens, you don’t even remember it. You hate that: not even having the dignity of recalling what Vriska made you do. You just wake up and find that Aradia is gone.  
  
Another thing you should have seen coming. You heard Aradia's voice in your head, before Vriska wormed her way in, but you still didn’t know what the voices meant. You told her, all innocent curiosity, and suddenly Aradia went silent as a tomb. She looked like a candle had been snuffed out somewhere inside her.  
  
And then she had brightened up and smiled, that piercing smile that refused to take no for an answer, and told you not to worry.  
  
Now, her voice is silent. Now, her body lies broken before you. Hair flung out across the earth, blood trickling from her mouth. Her gaze is unfocused, staring somewhere far, far away. Her smile is snuffed out.  
  
And you finally understand.

 

* * * *

 

Nothing lasts forever.  
  
This is what raises you: doom trailing in your shadow. Whenever it becomes too much to bear, the voices of the damned are waiting. They submerge your thoughts with their whispers. It’s like falling into a dark lake, down and down and down, while far above the bright surface recedes into black.  
  
Maybe it would be better if Aradia wasn’t still around. If she died and moved on like a normal troll, you would have never seen her again, and yes, you would grieve, but it would be a simple, clear-cut grieving, not this tangled knot of sorrow festering in your bloodpusher. Maybe you could have focused your efforts on getting revenge against Vriska—perpetuating a futile cycle of vengeance might keep your mind off things.  
  
_Fuck_ , you were so excited when her ghost first showed. You were fucking _ecstatic_. And then it turned out that this new Aradia didn’t want to do any of the things she had liked when she was alive. She didn’t want to FLARP. She didn’t want to go exploring. She didn’t even want to talk to you other than to drop infuriatingly cryptic hints about things you didn’t understand.  
  
“There’s a center to it all, I think,” she tells you once, near a ruin that she spent three perigees excavating when she was alive. Now she treats it as nothing more than a heap of rocks. “Temporally, the center is about a sweep and a half from now. When we’re eight. That’s when it all comes together.”  
  
“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” you say. You’re exhausted and angry. She contacted you on trollian, insisting you meet her here to talk in person, and now that you’re there all she does is babble nonsense.  
  
“It’s ok,” she says in the hollow way that she says everything. “But you might remember around that time. Or you might not. I’m not sure. There aren’t millions of timelines anymore, only this one, and I’m made of it. It’s like remembering in reverse.”  
  
“You’re crazy,” you say. “Why—”  
  
“It’s also Terezi,” she says. “She’s at the center, too. But she lost control of it once she set it into motion—that was the whole point of it for her, I think, to not have to feel guilty about what happens next. So there’s a center, and then there are the three shards.”  
  
The Aradia you remember had a smile as bright and brilliant as the moon. The ghost, no, the _thing_ in front of you looks like she’s forgotten what a smile _is._  
  
“The shards are the only thing left,” says the wisp of shadow wearing your friend’s face. “They make the rules. They can break them, too. You’ve always liked breaking rules, haven’t you?”  
  
“Shards of what?" you ask.  
  
“That’s not important. The important thing is that you don’t let Terezi go. Do everything you can to keep her close. For your sake.”  
  
“For _my_ thake? What do you care?”  
  
That seems to throw her for a loop. She blinks at you, slow and measured. “I don’t care,” she says eventually. “But I remember that I should.”  
  
And with that, she vanishes into the dark.

 

* * * *

 

That is the last time you meet Aradia Megido.  
  
When you’re six sweeps old, your circle of friends dwindles even further. Three of you—Eridan, Gamzee, and Vriska—more or less vanish off the face of Alternia. Personally you’re not too sorry to see them go, since Eridan was awful, you never liked Gamzee much and everyone knows damn well why you hate Vriska, but apparently you’re alone in that. You guess you’re used to being the one who’s left behind.  
  
Terezi in particular wants to find out what happened to them, to the point where it takes over her normal routine. Aradia’s ghost told you to keep Terezi close, so you do. You bother Terezi constantly until she travels to your hivestem and you have a face-to-face conversation in which you grill her on why exactly she cares so much about the three least likable members of your old social circle.  
  
“Well, Gamzee hasn’t done anything wrong, unless we are counting an atrocious fashion sense as a crime nowadays,” says Terezi. Her hair is disheveled. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a recuperacoon for days.  
  
“Yeah, but have you ever met up with him in perthon? Rethently? ‘Cauthe hith fear-making powerth tried to get cuddly with my thinkpan,” you say flatly. “It wathn’t fun, lemme tell you. Bit different than the harmleth nithe guy impreththion he wath doing over trollian. Ath far ath I'm contherned he'th a thecond revenge cycle waiting to happen."  
  
“I would still like to know why he has disappeared.”  
  
“And the otherth?”  
  
“Eridan is important for harvesting food for Miss Pearly Pink’s lovely lusus, so that she doesn’t cull us all instantly.”  
  
“And VK?” you say incredulously.  
  
“It could be something that we should know about.”  
  
“Like what? I’d thay the only thing we should know about ith the fact that we’re finally free of her,” you say. “Theriouthly, why do you bother?”  
  
Terezi tightens her grip on the head of her cane until her knuckles are white. Her facegash pulls down at one corner into a worn, lopsided frown.  
  
You sincerely hope you’re reading her expression wrong. “You don’t thtill care about her, do you?”  
  
“I don’t,” she says, like she’s trying to convince herself, like she thinks that if she says it enough times it’ll become true. “I don’t.”

 

* * * *

 

You never do find out what happened the three of them. You never hear their voices in your mind, so you assume they’re not dead, but beyond that you’re clueless. Terezi goes digging, but she doesn’t find anything. Feferi learns how to provide for her lusus on her own.  
  
TA: how are you handliing iit?  
CC: Im doing fin so far!  
CC: It turns out its reel easea w)(en it comes down to it.  
CC: 38)  
TA: 2o you dont have a problem wiith culliing anymore? the viiolent kiind, ii mean.  
CC: W)(ale, i would prefer not to )(AV--E to, but it’s not as )(ard as i t)(oug)(t it would be.  
TA: are you kiilling troll2 or ju2t lu2ii?  
CC: W)(ale you can’t get t)(e seacond one wit)(out t)(e first, can you?  
  
It’s weird to see Feferi adapt so quickly. Your mental image of her involves a lot of bubbliness and a total lack of killer ability. She's acting exactly the same, except for that one major change. You wonder if maybe you’ve completely misunderstood what’s going on inside her pan this entire time.  
  
A few nights after you turn seven sweeps old, there is a package waiting on your doorstep.  
  
It’s wrapped in plain brown paper. There is no sender marked and, you notice suspiciously, it arrived on a night that doesn’t match up with the delivery drones’ usual routes. First you stand at a safe distance and prod it with your psionics to check that it’s not a bomb or something, but nothing explodes, so you pick it up cautiously and bring it inside the hive. It rattles like it contains multiple objects, and when you unwrap it, there is a stack of trollUSB drives.  
  
One of the drives has a note attached. It's scrawled in unfamiliar handwriting and reads _U_ _se this first._

You flip the note over. The other side has an image printed on it: two circles with curved tails trailing behind them, curled around one another. It's bright red on a black background. The color is so unusual that for a moment you don’t recognize the symbol.  
  
\-- twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--  
  
TA: hey KK diid you deciide two giive me a belated wriiggliing day pre2ent or what  
TA: becau2e ii have two admiit ii diidnt thiink you had the iimagiinatiion two pull off all thi2 my2teriiou2ne22 2hiit  
KK: HELLO TO YOU TOO, CAPTOR.  
KK: CARE TO EXPLAIN WHAT THE EMPRESS-LOVING FUCK YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT?  
TA: the trollU2B2 wiith your 2iign on them, obviiou2ly.  
KK: HMM. GIVE ME A MOMENT.  
KK: …NOPE, I LOOKED BACK AT THE SCREEN AND YOU’RE STILL MAKING NO SENSE.  
TA: are they 2uppo2ed two triick me iinto downloadiing a viiru2 or 2omethiing  
TA: becau2e ii guarantee that my antiiviiru2 2oftware ii2 twiice a2 effectiive a2 anythiing you could po22iibly come up wiith.  
TA: ii wont pretend two under2tand whatever weiird game youre tryiing two play by anonymou2ly 2endiing me a bunch of driive2 and actiing liike you diidnt  
TA: but ii have two a2k  
TA: why put your 2iign iin red??  
KK: MY SIGN  
KK: BUT IN RED  
TA: ye2 that2 what ii 2aiid  
KK: OH FUCK  
KK: HOLY SHIT  
  
You raise your eyebrows. As far as swearing goes, that’s practically unoriginal by Karkat standards.  
  
KK: WHAT  
KK: WHY WOULD *THEY* SEND YOU SOMETHING?  
TA: and who ii2 iimportant a2terii2k2 *THEY* 2uppo2ed two bee.  
  
No response. It looks like he’s gone idle.  
  
You pick up the trollUSB drive with the note on it. If it’s a prank, it’s a weird one, and you don’t enjoy someone else holding the punchline over your head. You would much rather get it over with. And if it’s a virus, then your old husktop doesn’t have any sensitive information on it—you can just plug it in and watch your antivirus program battle it out.  
  
You dig out the clunky old husktop, brush dust out of the ports, and power it up. You insert the trollUSB and wait for it to show up on the desktop.  
  
Instead, the screen goes black.  
  
You jolt upright. That is definitely not supposed to happen, you have no idea what—  
  
> Greetings, Sollux Captor.  
  
The words appear in red. It’s too-bright, unnatural, like a stare from the sun.  
  
> This is a message from those that follow the teachings of the Signless Sufferer.  
> You are in danger.  
> We want to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you didn't mind the deviation from vriska and terezi's POVs too much? :0 it's just that i needed to show sollux's perceptions of aradia and her ghost in order to establish characterization and development important for the next chapter, which will involve aradia+damara+the handmaid. 
> 
> ...also, i wanted to explore sollux for a bit. he's a character that i didn't expect to care about when i began writing this fic, but he became more and more interesting until he ended up being valuable to the plot. and as usual, writing extensively about another character makes me really want to return to some good ol'-fashioned vrisrezi.


	19. draw the curtain back for venus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in homestuck, light symbolizes romance and love. (some examples: rosemary in general, rose and kanaya's first kiss, the lantern puzzle for the alpha kids in act 6, specific moments in act 5 when vriska's Light symbol is highlighted...) anyways, i had fun playing with that in this chapter, both in the chapter title and in the actual events.
> 
> WARNINGS: graphic depictions of blood, injuries, and fighting.

Your name is Vriska Serket, and you think: _not this time._  
  
Your wings carry you to the elevator doors. They chime and open up as the ship regains power. The outer metal casing is still crumpled and twisted open from where you burst through it to get into the throne room, but the elevator itself is apparently unharmed. You jump in and hit the right level for the humans’ cellblock with more force than necessary.  
  
Your legs ache from slamming the doors open and there’s a sharp agony in your ankle that flares whenever you come down in it. You’re fairly sure it’s broken, but right now you need to _find Terezi,_ and your raw determination turns the pain into faint background noise. You don’t dare look down at the wound.  
  
Every time something bad has happened to Terezi, you have been powerless to stop it. It makes you angry, makes something burn hot and furious in the pit of your stomach. You’re practically the world champ at fucking people up, but how is it that every time you try to help someone, it goes wrong?  
  
On the way down, your palm husk is inundated with messages. They’re from the empress, so you ignore them.

You can barely stand the seconds it takes for the elevator to reach the right floor, you’re so desperate to be on your way. You might not have much time.  
  
The doors chime and open.  
  
The hallway is wide and crowded with  trolls of all colors. Panicked orders fly through the air. A group of midblood technicians have set up their husktops on the floor and are typing away while a blueblood paces and snaps at them. You hear snippets of conversation. “—whole ship is helmlocked,” a technician is explaining to the blueblood.  
  
The blueblood scowls. “I didn’t ask you why, I asked you to _fix_ it—”  
  
“I’m _trying_ but it’s not like we have to bang it against the table to make it start working again, I have to go through levels and levels of encryption—”  
  
“I thought you built the security system!”  
  
“Yes, and that’s why what you’re asking me to do is impossibly difficult instead of just impossible,” says the midblood in the tone of someone who is eight millimeters from decking her commanding officer over the head with a husktop.  
  
Sounds like irrelevant computery gibberish to you. You brush past them and race down the hallway—you don’t want to show off your flying ability around all these people unless someone thinks it’s a mutation, but you use it to keep your broken ankle from contact with the ground while looking like you’re running.  
  
You turn a corner and pull up short.  
  
A waist-high plastic barrier has been set up to block the corridor. Trolls mill around in front of it, most of them making phone calls, all with the same frantic edge to their voice. “We need an expert in bioelectrics down here,” you overhear a nearby worker say. “Or someone who can deal with telekinesis. Or maybe a xenobiologist. Anyone, really—”  
  
Beyond the barrier, there are trolls in soldiers’ uniforms. A group of them are holding a battering ram. An officer is gesturing wildly at them. “Don’t move. Don’t move, I said! I don’t know who ordered you to do this, but—” You wonder what the hell is going on.  
  
Then you see it.  
  
An iridescent wall bisects the hallway, gleaming and multicolored, warping and bubbling as your gaze slips across it. You recognize that particular brand of technicolor, and you recognize the unique tingle of power on your skin: it’s a dreambubble.  
  
You stare. Well, that’s completely fucking unexpected.  
  
_How is this happening?_ you think. You thought timelines and alternate universes didn’t exist anymore, but then again, it’s exactly the kind of weirdness you would expect to find in the wake of someone like the Handmaid.  
  
You jump over the barricade and stride forward. “Who’s in charge here?” you demand.  
  
The officer turns. It’s General Torsha, with her sharp, pointed fins and her hair bound in a tight knot behind her head.

“That would be... me,” she says, crossing her arms. “Glad you decided to join us, Admiral.”  
  
“Tell me what’s going on.”  
  
“You know, I was wondering about precisely the same thing. You are the resident expert on alien bioweapons, are you not?”  
  
Your eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”  
  
She gestures to the glowing curve of the dreambubble. “This is your doing. You’re the one who brought the—what are they called— _humans_ on board the Battleship. Two hundred sweeps and no major security breaches, and then _you_ come along.”  
  
It takes a lot of self-control not to rise to that. You think Terezi might be proud of you, but—then you remember why she isn’t there. “So you can’t get through it?”  
  
“Obviously,” she says, voice so cold that icicles drip from her syllables. “I’ve been more concerned with determining if it’s about to explode and take the flagship with it.”  
  
“That won’t happen.” You pause. “…probably. What have you tried so far?”  
  
“Not much. The phenomenon appears to be spherical in form and extends through the walls. Any time we hit it with something it bounces back, hard. We think it’s a variant on psionics.”  
  
“That’s… weird,” you say. You notice that near the edge of the bubble, several trolls are sprawled unconscious on the ground. Everyone else is apparently too busy to do something about them. Dreambubbles never physically affected anyone in the Game, other than whisking them into a surreal, melded memoryscape. You tap your unwounded foot, thinking. “Got a pen?”  
  
General Torsha just stares at you like you’re something she scraped off the sole of her boot. You fight the urge to reach for your strife specibus and instead choose to accost a passing troll who looks vaguely secretary-like.  
  
“I need that,” you say, snatching the elongating writing utensil from their hand. Then you march toward the bubble.  
  
“Admiral,” Torsha warns. “That’s not—”  
  
You reach out with the capped pen and touch the bubble.  
  
There’s no resistance. The pen vanishes halfway into the swirling, glowing surface.  
  
“…the fuck?” says the general.  
  
So your guess was right: the bubble is a leftover part of the game, so it will only admit ex-Players. And that means there’s a high probably that Terezi is somewhere inside there.  
  
The general is only a few feet behind you. You make a subtle open-and-close motion with your hand and a frisson of something akin to electricity dances up your arm. You hope she doesn’t need to be very fortuitous anytime soon, because you just stole enough luck that she should be walking into doors more or less constantly for the next three nights.  
  
You sigh loudly. “Alright, it looks like it’s up to me to solve this mess, as usual! Try not to fuck up anything else while I’m gone, will you?”  
  
It’s satisfying to see the outraged look on her face, but that’s not what you’re thinking about as you leap into the dreambubble. _Terezi, Terezi, Terezi_ —it’s like a pusherbeat you feel in your throat, your ribs, your lungs.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and your body is dissolving into shadow.  
  
The Handmaid turns you both into mist, and you feel yourself hurtling along at a speed far faster than light, so fast that every cell in you body parts from its neighbors and scatters into the air. Your sniffer senses only a blur of darkness, splotched with bursts of blue and red light.  
  
The world snaps back into place. The sudden switch to stillness makes your stomach lurch, and you sway as dizziness pounds through your pan. You take loud, gasping breaths and bring yourself back to reality as fast as possible.  
  
You’re in the makeshift respiteblock-slash-cell reserved for the humans. Rose is hunched over on the floor with her companions in defensive positions around her.  
  
Just as you finish processing that, Jade notices your presence. Her oculars go wide, and then she’s running at you.  
  
She lashes out with a fist. You duck, but her next punch hits your cheek, snapping your head back. You fall backward, hard, and your breath leaves your lungs all at once. Jade aims to kick you in the side and you roll out of the way. You sweep your cane at her feet and she jumps aside—it buys you a few seconds to get back on your feet. You back off, drawing your blade.  
  
Jade hesitates, eyeing the weapon warily.  
  
“Jade, stop,” says Dave. “I think—I think it’s alright.”  
  
He and John aren’t watching you fight. They’re watching Rose and the Handmaid circle each other.  
  
Your first thought is that the two shard-bearers are waiting to see who will attack first, but it’s not that. Their gazes are locked, but you can’t tell if they’re looking at each other or at something on another plane of existence. They look like they’ve glimpsed something wondrous and impossible, magnificent and terrifying, like the fusion at the heart of a star.  
  
Rose reaches out, and there’s a crackle of power, electricity or maybe a force of a different kind altogether. She snatches back her appendage as if burned.  
  
They keep circling. Their expressions are mesmerized.  
  
You and Jade trade a glance and come to a silent agreement. She crosses her arms and relaxes her stance, and you sheathe your cane. You creep forward, light on your walkstubs like they taught you at the legislaceratorial academy, trying not to attract attention from the two most powerful individuals in the block. You stop between Jade and Dave. “Do you have any clue what’s going on?” you hiss.  
  
“Nope,” says Dave, still not looking at you. “Is that Aradia?”  
  
“I wish.”  
  
The Handmaid pauses in her circling. “So we can come close to each other… but not too close.”  
  
Rose stops as well. “What would happen if we did?”  
  
The Handmaid smiles. “I don’t think you’d like to find out!”  
  
“Probably. Tell me, how did you find me?”  
  
“I felt you for a while, but I didn’t really know what I was sensing. I actually came to kill the empress, but then I ran into Terezi here,” says Megido, casually, as if discussing a grocery list. “She was nice enough to point me in your direction.”  
  
Rose appears unfazed. Her gaze flickers to you. “You could tell she had a shard within her?”  
  
Your throat is suddenly dry. You swallow with difficulty. “Not as such, I’m afraid. It was simple application of deductive reasoning.”  
  
The Handmaid drifts closer. Her shadow twists and changes shape like a living thing, without any clear relation to her physical form. “It’s funny, but you always seem to be at the center of this! I wonder why that is?” She frowns. “But I _do_ know why. I remember why. I _know._ At least—Aradia knows. But I’m not her, am I? And that’s why it’s not coming to mind…”  
  
Rose is thoughtful, and you hope like hell she doesn’t blurt out what she knows about the genesis of this universe. The amalgamation of a troll in front of you is a lit fuse and the last thing you want is her aimed in your direction.  
  
The Handmaid is staring at her fronds. “I want to remember,” she says quietly.  
  
She twitches her claws. Between them you see a tiny, iridescent soap bubble.  
  
She spreads her appendages and the bubble grows. It warps and shimmers as it expands from the size of a coin to the size of a skull to the size of a troll. You’ve only ever seen things like these while inside them, so it takes you a moment to realize what it is.  
  
Jade figures it out at the same time. “A dreambubble?” she says in confusion, and then it engulfs you all.  
  
And then you are standing outdoors, in an ancient ruin in a rock-strewn valley. The mountains of Alternia rise imperiously in the distance. The sharp musk of dust stings your sniffer and coats your tongue, rendering the world a splotch of sandy yellow. The only reason you can scent-see at all is the harsh wind that carries the colors of the scene unfolding before you.  
  
Sollux sits on a slab of rock, a pillar that was likely overturned centuries ago. He’s young, bony and fragile, as if the breeze could topple him at any moment. He smells familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time, and you think that you would feel nostalgic if you weren’t busy frantically analyzing the situation and waiting for the moment when everything goes wrong.   
  
“AA?” he asks. “You there?”  
  
The Handmaid’s shape glitches, her shadow flickering, and in a flat, hollow voice she says, “I have something I need to tell you.”  
  
“Which ith?”  
  
“It’s about Terezi.”

“And?” Sollux says. His voice is impatient, almost angry, but he smells like a wistful kind of sadness.  
  
“There’s a center to it all, I think. Temporally, the center is about a sweep and a half from now. When we’re eight. That’s when it all comes together.”  
  
“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”  
  
“It’s ok. But you might remember around that time. Or you might not. I’m not sure. There aren’t millions of timelines anymore, only this one, and I’m made of it. It’s like remembering in reverse.” The Handmaid isn’t speaking like she normally does—and then you realize those words do not belong to the Handmaid, but to the ghost of Aradia Megido, age six sweeps.  
  
Sollux is shaking his head. “You’re crazy. Why—”  
  
Aradia interrupts him. “It’s also Terezi. She’s at the center, too, but she lost control of it once she set it into motion—that was the whole point of it for her, I think, to not have to feel guilty about what happens next.” She pauses. “So there’s a center, and then there are the three shards.”  
  
Your bloodpusher leaps into your throat.  
  
(Even now, with a crisis careening headlong into your path, your mind ticks like clockwork. _Three shards of the Game. Between her and Rose we have two right here, but who is the third?_ )  
  
Time stutters. The memory glitches, or something close to it, and returns to a few seconds ago. “—there are the three shards.”  
  
It repeats. “—the three shards.”  
  
“—three shards.”  
  
Time rewinds, and the Handmaid turns slowly toward you. You hear Aradia, the words floating in the air, disconnected from anything happening in reality: “It’s also Terezi. She’s at the center, too. But she lost control of it once she set it into motion—”  
  
“You?” says the Handmaid, as Aradia’s disembodied voice says, “—shards.”  
  
You make a humiliating squeaking noise in the back of your throat. “Listen, it was an accident,” you say.  
  
The memory twitches and jerks. Aradia’s soundbites speed up, become jumbled beyond recognition. “Accident?” growls the Handmaid. Her shadow elongates, stretching toward you with misshapen limbs. “Do you know what this is _like?_ What I have _endured?”_  
  
Rose steps forward. “Let’s not be hasty here. I know for a fact that Terezi didn’t intend this, and retaliating against her won’t solve your problems. I think—”  
  
The Handmaid tosses Rose into the nearest pillar with a crackle of psionics, and then she attacks.  
  
Everything grows dim. Her shadow multiplies, and as the shadow-doubles creep forward and reach out with a thousand misshapen limbs, they grow more physical, more real. Dread is sharp and sour on your tongue.  
  
They’re surrounding you. You whip out your cane and slash at the nearest shade. It passes through with only a hint of resistance.  
  
The translucent shade pauses, and its shape becomes sharper, more defined, until it’s formed into the outline of an unfamiliar troll with hooked horns and a lanky frame. The other shadows are changing in the same way, into the contours of trolls you’ve never met, and you realize what they are: ghosts.  
  
Something cold touches the back of your neck.  
  
You jam your elbow backward, hoping to catch it off guard, but the thing behind you gives way like nothing living would. It smells like dead things, rotting things, and it’s glutinous and slimy and the sensation coats your skin, and then, oh no, it keeps going, crawling over your limbs and caressing your chin.  
  
A ghostly frond grips your horn and pulls back, exposing your throat.  
  
You hear the Handmaid’s voice: “I’m tired of excuses.” You can’t tell where it comes from; you’ve lost all sense of direction. Your scent-image of your surroundings doesn’t make sense, not with everything obscured by the shadows of the restless dead.  
  
Pain erupts within you, invisible talons rending your internal organs from the inside out. You can’t tell if it’s a nightmare she planted in your head or not, can’t tell if that’s even something she can do.  
  
Your lungs constrict and you fail to draw your next breath. You’re choking, you’re dying—and with that knowledge, the fear begins to fade into frustration. Really? _Really?_ Sometimes it seems like you’ve spent the last sweep doing nothing but being tortured and held prisoner at the whim of beings more powerful than you. You’re pretty sure there are better hobbies.  
  
You summon up strength from some hidden, indignant corner of your body and kick at the ghosts holding you in place. It does nothing.  
  
“I’m going to kill you,” says the Handmaid simply, and all the ghosts tear into you at once.  
  
The pain is like being caught in the blast of an exploding star. It’s everywhere. Physical and mental, there’s no distinction. Dark closes in around you, thick and suffocating.  
  
And then light cleaves it in two.  
  
Out of nowhere—the blade of a sword, arcing toward the Handmaid, glowing like a supernova, and the person wielding it—  
  
The Handmaid catches the blade in her hand. Blood spurts from her appendages, reddish-black and glistening, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She yanks the sword toward her, trying to unbalance her opponent.  
  
And Vriska just leaps after her weapon, twisting in midair, and rakes it across the Handmaid’s neck. _Vriska,_ you think dizzily, _Vriska, Vriska, Vriska…_ You wonder if you’re dreaming.  
  
The cut is shallow—a taunt, a warning—and Vriska swoops away. Her flight is like a dance. She comes back to hover at her opponent’s level, her sword outstretched, her stance a challenge.  
  
“Get out of the way,” growls the Handmaid.  
  
Vriska smirks. “How about… no.”  
  
You can’t tell who moves first, but suddenly they’re both attacking. Ghosts lurch at Vriska, snatching at her flesh, but she cuts through them and they dissipate, defeated by the light that must be some kind of classpect power. And yet seconds later more spirits are summoned to take their place.  
  
Vriska fights her way through the army of ghosts but her target simply evades her, vanishing and reappearing elsewhere without warning. As the ghosts release you and you sink to your knees, you watch with a gaping mouthflap. You’re covered in cuts and every part of you aches, but the battle mesmerizes you. You’ve never seen Vriska fight one-on-one before, not since you were young, and she is a hurricane.

Hope kindles briefly like a flame in your stomach. But then you remember that she is fighting the troll they call the Demoness, who can bend the fabric of reality to her will, and your hope turns to ash.  
  
There are footsteps behind you. You look up, too weak to do more than that, and John extends an appendage down to you.  
  
You stare at it warily.  
  
He sighs. “Just take it!”  
  
You’re on the verge of passing out and can’t really muster up any good reasons to be distrustful, so you do. A soothing coolness spreads up your arm, across your shoulders, down your chest, then all over your body, from your walkstubs to the tips of your horns. Your wounds glow, and when the glow fades the pain is gone and the cuts have sealed over.  
  
“…thanks, Mister Electric Blue,” you say. You forgot about the healing powers he’d received from the ecto-Ancestor tucked away somewhere inside his mind.  
  
“Now come on!” He pulls you upright and tries to drag you away. It’s hard to tell with the stink of rotting things clogging your sniff-canals, but he’s leading you to where the other humans are huddled, where Rose fell after she was tossed aside.  
  
You hold your ground. “No.”  
  
“Come on, Terezi, you don’t want to be caught in the crossfire—”  
  
“I need to _think._ ” You wrench your frond from his and plug your auricular shells, trying to concentrate. If you could only call up your Seer powers and find a way to help…  
  
Vriska screams. You whirl around, your train of thought shattered. She’s on the ground, and she must have landed badly because her ankle is twisted the wrong way and there’s bone sticking out, oh fuck, you feel like your bloodpusher is tearing in two.  
  
The Handmaid advances on her. And trips on a rock.  
  
Vriska’s scream stops, turns to harsh, gurgling laughter. Blood spatters from her mouth, bright and blue and sickly sweet.  
  
Her opponent snarl and picks up Vriska’s sword from where it lies just out of the blueblood’s grasp. The Handmaid raises the sword above her head, the bright blade suffused by shadow, and brings it down.  
  
She misses.  
  
The blade embeds itself in the sandy earth, spears through a lock of Vriska’s hair, mere inches from her face.  
  
“Them’s the breaks!” says Vriska cheerfully.  
  
A blur of motion and then she’s somersaulting into the air, fronds wrapped around the weapon’s hilt, undaunted by measly little things such as broken bones. The ghosts chase her and she goes higher and higher to evade them.  
  
Then she stops, frowning. She goes a little higher, maybe an inch, and stops again. There’s a technicolor fissure where the tip of her horn impacted… an invisible ceiling…  
  
Suddenly you know what to do.  
  
You run to where the humans are gathered. John’s brow is furrowed in concentration as a healing glow moves up and down Rose’s thoracic support column. She’s unconscious. “Wake her up,” you order.  
  
He glares at you. “Okay, no, I just healed a head wound, she’s got to rest or it might not take right.”  
  
“Vriska’s going to _die._ ”  
  
“Why would I care? Besides, it looks like she’s doing just fine!”  
  
As he speaks, the Handmaid launches herself upward. Her spirits follow, a torrent of shadows made physical, a thousand fronds outstretched, readying for your moirail’s destruction. Vriska executes a flip in midair, dancing out of their clutches, and hovers a little ways away. She grins. “Maaaan, your luck keeps getting worse and worse, doesn’t it? It’s almost like someone is _stealing_ it!”  
  
But the Handmaid’s gaze strays to a point beyond her, to the crack in the dreambubble. Her lips stretch into a slow, dangerous smile.  
  
You can’t smell Vriska’s emotions, not over the stench of the ghosts’ festering resentment, but you can tell when her expression changes. “What?” she snaps.  
  
“Oh, I’m so shortsighted sometimes,” says the Handmaid. “For a second I forgot where we were!”  
  
She brings her fronds together. With a sound like an elastic band, the wall of the bubble becomes visible again, multicolored and shimmering. Vriska flinches.  
  
You turn back to John. He’s gone pale. “Wake her up now,” you say, “because the Demoness is going to collapse this thing on our heads, and I’m not sure you can be resurrected from whatever torture the laws of physics are about to endure!”  
  
He swallows. Then he touches Rose’s forehead. Her ocular lids flicker open.  
  
“Hey, Miss Lavender Soap,” you say. “Do you think you could do us all a favor and get us the hell out of here?”  
  
She blinks quickly, not quite awake. “I…” She looks around, taking in the danger. “I… don’t know how.”  
  
Far above you, Vriska slashes three ghosts to pieces with a stroke of her weapon. Four more take their place. The walls of the bubble shudder and begin to contract.  
  
You grimace. “You don’t happen to have a plan B up your sleeve?”  
  
Rose’s facegash flattens into a hard line. “A different tactic, then.” She uses you as leverage to push herself upright, and she sways, but she does not fall. She takes a deep breath, then shouts in a voice loud enough to echo: “ _Hey!_ Do you _want_ to kill the only chance you have to get better?”  
  
Your bloodpusher pounds. “That won’t work, she’s not that logical,” you say in a low voice. “She’s forgotten all about me to go after Vriska because that’s the most recent thing to infuriate her, she’s not going to listen to reason—”  
  
The dreambubble’s boundaries go still. The ghosts pause, drawing back. The Handmaid glances down.  
  
Apparently the universe loves to prove you wrong.  
  
Rose wobbles. “I think I can help you,” she calls, “but that may be difficult if I am flattened into at the incorrect dimension due to revenge-driven reality-bending antics.”  
  
The Handmaid hesitates. And then—and you know what is about to happen not because you are a Seer, but because you know Vriska like you know the inside of your lungs—Vriska takes advantage of the distraction and attacks.  
  
The sword slices through the torso. It’s easy. Like cutting through butter.  
  
The Handmaid looks down at where a rust-red line divides one half of her body from the other. The cut is barely seeping, so clean that the halves haven’t even separated yet.  
  
Except then the world glitches like a scratched record, and the wound is gone.  
  
“Wow!” she says brightly. “The annoying part is that I warned you about this. I warned you bro. I warned you about killing things that can’t die.”  
  
Vriska’s weapon is lowered. She’s caught off guard. And that’s when the Demoness rips out her throat.  
  
It happens so fast that you won’t be able to recall the exact moment. Just the awful eternity as you watch your palemate drop like a stone, trailing cerulean as she falls.  
  
Behind you, the Handmaid is saying something to Rose. You can’t hear it over the roar in your auriculars.  
  
You rush to your moirail’s side. She’s crumpled up like a scrap of paper, lying in a pool of her own blood. You’re shaking all over, you don’t know what to do, _this is your fault._  
  
You take off your jacket and press it to the gush of blood from her slashed jugular, but you already know there’s no use, she’ll bleed out in seconds. Your shoulders shake with sobs. “No, no, not again—”  
  
Her oculars meet yours. Her mouth twitches into something close to a smile. There’s a faint psychic pressure on your mind, and you hear her voice echo in your thoughts: _well, I always wanted to go out Heroic._  
  
“Don’t you dare,” you say. Your tears drip onto her wound. Her scent is bright and sweet and bitter, and you remember another time when you watched as she bled out. You remember pushing your blade through the sun on her chest, and you think _no, please, not this time._  
  
She reaches out and taps weakly at your face. _Hey, don’t cry,_ she tells you. Even her mind-voice is growing fainter. _It’s gonna be okay._  
  
You only cry harder. You hate how weak you are, but you can’t help it. The blood seeps through the jacket and coats your skin, and you should have acted faster, thought quicker, been better, and now she is dying because of you.  
  
Her frond falls to her side and her oculars glaze over. You shake her, sentences incoherent, begging her to wake up, pleading with her not to leave you.

You barely notice when the walls of the dreambubble vanish.

The gritty dirt turns to stark white tile. The atmosphere changes subtly. There are trolls moving around you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.  
  
Then they try to touch Vriska, and you scream and lash out. They yell in shock and someone tries to grab your wrists, to hold you back. You twist out of their grip and punch them in the face. Your chest aches with terror and sorrow and your skull pounds with the words _not again, not again, you can’t have her—_  
  
A needle pierces your arm. You black out.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...you know what, i think this is actually the first real fight scene in this fic? i mean, characters have attacked each other before, but it's never been extended like this.


	20. you murmur that i leave you quite alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter title is a paraphrase from "the old astronomer," not an exact quote.
> 
> in other news, i drew vriska at the end of the previous chapter (drawing is... not my greatest strength but i Tried), so that's [here](https://unintelligible-screaming.tumblr.com/post/161569103982/as-you-can-see-drawing-characters-is-very-much-not). and i got some really nice fanart from [booksandchainmail](https://booksandchainmail.tumblr.com/) on tumblr [here](https://unintelligible-screaming.tumblr.com/post/161703815707/booksandchainmail-admiral-serket-and-chief)! thank you!!

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and when you come to, it’s with a cold steel floor pressed into your back. Your reflexes make you jump upright and reach for your cane, and you take stock of your surroundings.  
   
You’re in a cellblock. It’s not a hellhole like the ones devised for alien prisoners, which are nothing more than a containment cube. This place has a small recuperacoon in the corner, a walled-off ablutions facility, and even a desk and a spindly-legged chair. The next thing you notice is that your sylladex is gone. So is your canesword, and there’s a moment where you wonder why, and then you hear the echo of its snap in your auriculars and you remember what happened.  
   
The energy that propelled you to your walkstubs abandons you all at once. Your knees fold and you slump against the wall.  
   
Vriska trailed blue like a comet as she fell. The dreambubble collapsed. Someone tried to get near her, you were half out of your mind and reacted violently, and then presumably you were sedated and brought here. The knowledge sits cold and dull in the pit of your stomach. It’s a wedge in your lungs that hurts when you breathe. You rest your head in your arms until you can bear to think beyond it, and then you stagger over to the thin rectangular outline in the steel wall that you hope is the door and bang on it with your fists.  
   
“Hey!” you shout. “ _Hey!_ Is there a guard here? Can I speak to them?”  
   
No response. You press your sniffer to the cracks and inhale. There’s a hallway outside with cells at regular intervals and you catch a whiff of sweat and imperial uniform, so you assume that there is a guard and they’re just ignoring you. It doesn’t surprise you—that’s standard protocol for handling prisoners, and you should hope that guards on the Battleship Condescension would keep to protocol.  
   
After several more minutes of making noise and receiving no response, you retreat to the back of the cellblock and pace. You try to sit at the desk and calm yourself, but it doesn’t work.  
  
When you can bring yourself to think about it, there are two possibilities. The first is that Vriska is alive, somehow, and and you are here because… well, you’re still working on that one. The second is that Vriska is dead, and in concordance with Alternian Military Law article 11 chapter 1 clause 3, you are being held in preparation for your upcoming execution.  
   
Between the psychological conditioning, the quadrant-binding, and the subsequent difficulty of reassignment, an Adjutant without their officer is nothing more than a liability. Why recycle when you can throw away? That’s how Alternia works. Maybe the empress will decide to spare you; she certainly treats you differently from the other Seconds, and you could be very useful to her.  
  
Maybe you’ll go before her and she’ll ask you to make a case for your continued survival. You wonder if you would even want to. Right now sitting back and taking the fate the universe hands you without protest sounds like the more attractive option.  
  
You’re not sure you have it in you to resist anything anymore.  
   
(If it were Vriska in your place, she wouldn’t even think it was a choice. She would never give up. She wouldn’t understand the concept.)  
   
All this speculating is pointless if Vriska is still living, but how could she be, with a wound that severe? You’ve seen trolls die before, you’ve killed more trolls than you count, starting when you were only five sweeps and Vriska told you that her lusus needed food. You remember her asking, _Do you want to play a game?_ And you remember the consequences. You recognize a killing blow when you see one.  
   
It was the first time she’d spoken into your mind. You didn’t know she could. Before you had thought off-handedly that if she could use her psychics on you she would speak into your pan all the time, just to get under your skin—but now you recall that she once promised she would never dig around in your head if you didn’t want her to. It wasn’t anything like the conditioning. It was a whisper in your auricular, a beat in your bloodpusher, a breath in your lung. She reached inside you so she could say _don’t cry,_ and _I always wanted to go out Heroic._  
  
You don’t know why you feel so disconnected. Maybe you’ve gone through feeling and out the other side. As you pace from corner to corner, you feel as if you’re watching yourself from outside your body.  
   
You go and bang on the door again. Nothing. Eventually your legs tire, still weak from the anesthesia, and you have to sit down.  
   
Finally, _finally,_ there are footsteps in the corridor.  
   
The door opens and there’s a clang as a troll you don’t recognize tries to fit a chair through the opening. “Oh come on,” he mutters, pulling it through with one last tug. Then he sets it down, sits, and pulls out a husktablet like he’s at a meeting. “Hello, Chief Auxiliary Pyrope.”  
   
“Who are you?”  
   
“I’m General Torsha’s Second. I think we’ve met in passing.” He does look familiar—you recognize those horns, sticking straight up from his head and then curving into symmetrical crescents. He’s low indigo. His clothes are neat and he’s got the dark splotches under his ganderbulbs that belong to every overworked clerk in the history of the empire. He says, “I’m here to interview you about the events of last night.”  
   
“Is Admiral Serket alive?”  
   
“I’m not authorized to provide that information,” he says.  
   
Through some miracle, you keep your voice steady. Your claws dig into your palms, but you stop yourself before you draw blood. “I need to know if she’s living.”  
   
“Sorry, but I’m not authorized to release that information to you,” he repeats calmly. “Please, take a seat.”  
   
His face holds nothing but politeness. His scent is bland and unremarkable. You goggle at him incredulously as best as you can without working oculars, but when his expression doesn’t falter, you do what he asks and sit at the desk. Resting your elbows on the table gives you the illusion of control, at least. It makes you feel like you’re in an office. You lean forward. “What _are_ you authorized to tell me, then?”  
   
“I’m here to ask you about what happened, like I said.”  
   
“Usually that would be a written report, though,” you say, thinking that if you really told the troll in front of you about dreambubbles and aliens and duels with the Handmaid he would probably recommend you for culling on grounds of insanity.  
   
“Well, right now it’s an interview.”  
   
_A little too bland,_ you think. You can’t get a read on his intentions at all, and that’s suspicious as fuck. There’s no reason the Condesce would send someone to interview you when she seems to delight in messaging you herself over trollian.  
   
You decide turnabout is fair play and say, “I’m sorry, but the information you’re asking for is classified.”  
   
“We have the same security clearance, Auxiliary.”  
   
“Alternian Military Law says that if a soldier happens upon valuable intel they are to withhold the intel from all personnel lower than the appropriate clearance level, regardless of their own rank,” you say. “Article 17, chapter 8.”  
  
Still not a hint of annoyance from him, and you said that in a tone of voice calculated to be as irritating as possible, so he’s definitely got an agenda.  
   
He says, “While I value your dedication to your duty, I’m sure you’re aware that the loyalty of a Second to their officer must, by statute, go unquestioned by all except for the—”  
   
“Except for the officer in question, I know,” you say. You think,  _Gotcha._ “And I’m guessing you’re about to say that it’s okay for you to receive this kind of confidential information because your General said you could. You know, you’ve been talking a lot about _authority._ Whose?”  
   
He pauses a little too long. “Excuse me?”  
   
“Whose authority are you acting on? Who sent you to ‘interview’ me?”  
   
“I’m here in the regular course of my duties.”  
   
“Yes, I’m sure you do this every day,” you say, rolling your eyes (and twitching your eyebrows pointedly so it’s actually perceptible). If you were in a better mood you might have liked to make him squirm, but that strange coldness is still lodged between your ribs. You cut straight to the point: “This matter is for the auriculars of the empress only. If General Torsha feels left out, she can talk to her boss instead of using transparent trickery on her colleague’s underling. I’m pretty sure this kind of deception is breaking at least seven different laws.”  
   
“I—”  
   
“Tell me if Vriska Serket is alive.”  
   
Torsha’s Second regards you coldly. He says nothing.  
   
“Fine,” you say through gritted teeth. “Then at least tell me why I’m here. On what grounds am I being detained? Does her imperious condescension know I’m locked up?”  
   
“This isn’t a courtblock,” he snaps. “When the unexplained obstruction dissipated and her graciousness the General encountered your Admiral in a wounded state, she attempted to pick her up and remove her to the infirmary for immediate treatment. _You_ shrieked like an animal and lashed out with your fists, and you’re here because you assaulted a superior officer.”  
   
Something warm and bright burns in your chest. He didn’t say _because you’ll be dead by tomorrow,_ he said— “So she's alive," you say.  
   
“That still remains to be seen,” he says, standing, and suddenly the scent of all the loathing he’d been holding back this whole conversation crashes over you like a wave, sharp and bitter as blood in your scent-nodes. “Especially after you delayed her transferral to the medicullers. And even if she does make it, I hope you get what you deserve—if it were up to the General, you would be _flogged.”_  
   
He slams the door behind him. You watch him go with surprise—that reaction was coated in resentment so thick you could cut it for your grubmeal, you know there has to be something more to his hatred of you than the reasons he’s stated. But right now you don’t care about that particular puzzle, because Vriska has a chance.  
   
She probably won’t make it.

But she might.  
   
It’s worse than numbness. It hurts like being stabbed with a culling fork. Your body shakes with terror and relief, and you grip yourself tightly and hope.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Your name is Vriska Serket, and you jolt awake from a daymare. It must have been a daymare, because your memory is filled with images that don’t make sense, darkness and ghosts and blood.  
  
Then you try to shift your head and a stab of pain spears through your throat, and your memories rise back up like a suspicious meal from a bad takeout place.  
  
You’re lying in an odd horizontal position on top of a strange, cushioned surface. The flat white light of the Battleship shines through your closed eyelids. When you finally muster the energy to take a look around, you find yourself on a soft platform in a private room that you guess is somewhere in the infirmary wing.  
  
“Welcome back, Admiral,” says a clipped, polite voice next to you. You jump, then realize it’s only a mediculler.  
  
There are a lot of things you can say when you wake up in a hospital-like place after going unconscious in a violent altercation, and you once swore to yourself that you would never fall prey to a cliché. However, you didn’t count on what you’re now experiencing, which is a feeling like you’ve been rammed by a Battleship-class warship. You give into the most basic of clichés and croak: “What happened?”  
  
“Careful, please, don’t sit up yet,” says the mediculler, as you attempt to do exactly that. “Your vocal cords had to be reconstructed entirely out of robotic parts, and your body isn’t quite done replenishing its blood supply. It’s only due to prompt action and expert intervention that you’re here at all, in fact. You’ll need at least another few nights of rest before—”  
  
“I asked what happened,” you repeat.  
  
The medicare’s green-tinged lips tug downward. “Unfortunately I’m a touch shaky on the details. Classified, apparently.”  
  
You try to sort through the possible consequences of your battle with the trollish personification of death. “Is the Battleship under attack?”  
  
“…no?”  
  
“Did anyone get arrested? Or culled, or whatever?”  
  
“I—not that I’m aware of.”  
  
“Is Terezi okay?”  
  
The mediculler goes back to his husktop. “You mean your Second? Clean bill of health, excepting the ocular defect, according to these documents.” He scrolls, reading, then says, “Her sedation should have worn off by this evening.”  
  
“Her _what?”_ You struggle upright, ignoring the nausea the motion causes. You recall the numbness in your fingers, the swipe of Megido’s claws and your crash to the ground, the sight of Terezi’s face hovering above you. You had thought she was unhurt, but if she had to be sedated…  
  
“That’s what it says here. But, please, if you could avoid straining yourself—”  
  
You interrupt him by grabbing his husktop. “I need to borrow this.”  
  
You log into trollian. Doing this is terrible op-sec, since you’re only supposed to access confidential transmissions on secured devices, but you really don’t care. What’s the worst that could happen, a Sufferist insurgent could get his hands on it? That ship sailed a long time ago. It sailed so long ago that entire galaxies have been created and destroyed since it sailed.  
  
There are several unread messages on your account.  
  
\--  )(-ER IMP------ERIOUS COND----ESC-ENSCION [)(IC] began trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \--

)(IC: w)(ere t)(e s)(ell do you t)(ink youre going  
)(IC: come back )(ere you beac)(  
)(IC: ug)( you are SO lucky im not in a stabbing mood  
  
Those must be the ones you ignored when you ran after Terezi. There are more from a few nights later, earlier tonight:  
  
)(IC: oh you managed to get yours)(elf stabbed nearly to deat)( all on your own t)(anks for t)(at  
)(IC: i appre-sea-ate t)(e effis)(iency  
)(IC: anywave w)(en you wake up you got to pick up your gillfrond from t)(e brig  
)(IC: s)(e flippered t)(e fuck out w)(en t)(e nurseradicators tried to get you on t)(e stretc)(er and s)(e attacked a supierior officer  
)(IC: tec)(nically youre t)(e one w)(ose supposed to discipline )(er )(alibut we all know t)(at aint )(appening  
)(IC: and after t)(at i want a full report and a R---E-EL good explanation for w)(y lalonde and megido )(ave jumped s)(ip  
  
Wait, what? They’re just gone?  
  
)(IC: t)(eres a security and strategy briefing at 1800 )(ours so mako s)(ore your ass is over t)(ere on time mmkay  
  
\-- )(-ER IMP------ERIOUS COND----ESC-ENSCION [)(IC] ceased trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \--  
  
You log out and hand the husktop back to its surprised owner. “I want directions to the brig. Now.”  
  
It turns out that the brig is not far from the infirmary. It also turns out that you’re wearing one of those annoying hospital gowns that you despise so much that they're edging into your pitch quadrant, so you have to threaten the mediculler with maiming before he gives up on trying to make you stay still and gives you a change of clothes. Before you leave, you glance in the mirror. The only sign of your recent incapacitation is a new scar that stretches across your neck. It’s pretty sick. You approve.  
  
The Fleet’s flagship doesn’t usually keep prisoners, so the brig is mostly empty. The guard jumps to attention when you arrive.  
  
“Right this way, Admiral,” says the guard, leading you to a nondescript cell. It takes a moment for the ship to read your genetic ID, and then the doors open.  
  
When you come in, Terezi is pacing. First her nose twitches, then she looks up, and then you’re both moving and before you know it you’re holding each other in your arms.  
  
She’s warm and she presses a kiss below your ear and something inside you begins to unwind. You rub your shoulders and are halfway to melting completely when you realize that she’s shaking.  
  
You pull back. “What’s wrong?”  
  
You see her consciously repress her body’s tremble. “It’s—nothing. I’m fine, really, I’ve just spent a bit too long alone with my thoughts.”  
  
She brushes your new scar with her hand, and you become aware of a bittersweet ache lurking somewhere behind your sternum. You settle your chin between her horns and say, “Soooo, you attacked a superior officer? That’s hardcore.”  
  
“It was General Torsha, apparently. I didn’t notice at the time.”  
  
“Wait, really? Holy shit. Holy _shit!_ That’s hilarious. I wish I could’ve seen it.”  
  
She laughs. It’s rusty and tinged with exhaustion, but it’s still a laugh, and you’re fiercely glad to hear it.  
  
You spend a few minutes in silence, holding each other in the cramped cell block, reminding yourselves that you are both safe and whole.  
  
Eventually Terezi says, “Your hair is a mess.”  
  
“Ha, you’re one to talk." She clearly hasn’t washed hers in ages.  
  
“Shut up, yours looks like someone poured maple syrup on it and let it dry. There’s blood congealed in here—ow!” She yanks back her hand and sucks at the bright drop of teal welled up on her digit. “Damn, I forgot you wear barbed wire like a fashion accessory.”  
  
“It was just supposed to stop people from grabbing it, but I started a trend back at the academy, actually—look, Pyrope, I’m tired of standing around. What do you say we blow this joint?”  
  
The two of you walk back to your quarters. It’s a while until 1800 hours and you think you have time to jam before writing that report. There’s an itching in your horns and under the skin of your palms and a kind of longing in your chest that drowns out the pangs of your bruised body and indicates that you are very much in need of someone to soothe and be soothed by. As you walk, you talk about unimportant things and think about how you want to run your fingers behind the velvet of her ears until her muscles unlock and her eyelids fall closed.  
  
When you enter your rooms, she goes sniffing around the block with the intensity of a legislacerator hunting a fugitive. Finally she declares, “Surveillance free! Apparently we have earned the trust of our imperial overlords. That or her wondrous and magnificent cruelty feels we have been sufficiently cowed into submission.”  
  
“Is that good or bad?”  
  
“It makes things easier, but it’s also extremely depressing. What, don’t we merit a little discreet suspicion? We’re becoming boring.”  
  
“Hey, Terezi?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Can you brush my hair?”  
  
It catches her by surprise, if the way her mouth opens slightly is any indication. You count it as a personal victory. She takes a moment to compose herself, then says, “Don’t we have a report to write?”  
  
“That’s a good point.” You walk closer, noticing the way she turns ever-so-slightly in your direction, like the needle of a compass. “I think we should prepare for the report by telling each other about what happened in our own words. We’ll talk about how we feel about it. And while we do that, you can brush my hair and I can give you a horn rub.”  
  
“So, your concept of ‘preparation’ is a feelings jam?”  
  
“I’m prepared to romance you into a pile,” you say, and she throws a scalemate at your face.  
  
“That is the singular most terrible pun I’ve ever heard,” she says. Her tone is unmoved, but she goes faintly teal. You waggle your eyebrows at her in the way she does all the time, and she holds up another scalemate threateningly.  
  
You back off exaggeratedly, grinning, and and she throws it at you anyway. You let it bounce off your nose.  
  
Terezi says, “Well? What are you looking at me like that for? If you want to do this, you should be sitting down.”  
  
You settle onto the pile of legal texts, military protocol manuals, crumpled uniforms and nostalgic stuffed lusii, still intact from the last time you piled. Now it feels like an eternity ago. She sits down next to you, twining your limbs together. Suddenly all your layers of clothing feel like a terrible obstruction, so you toss your jacket into the air with a dramatic flick of your wrist, then begin taking off Terezi’s. She lets you remove her first two layers until she’s down to an undershirt—no need for any less than that, in a conciliatory relationship. You can see her struggle with self-consciousness, then uncross her arms and relax.  
  
You take off her glasses and run your digits over the vulnerable skin of her eyelids, closing them as gently as you know how. You touch the arch of her brows, the divot of her temples, the soft place behind her ears.  
  
She decaptchalogues a set of combs from her sylladex and nudges you to turn around. You stay put. She gives you a stern look. “You have to face the other way if you want me to do something about that featherbeast's nest growing out of your skull. I mean, it looks like a pricklebeast.”  
  
“But I want to be able to see you.”  
  
“Admiral Blueberry—”  
  
“You can do it like this, can’t you?” You kiss the tip of her nose.  
  
She glares at you, unflustered by your completely swoon-worthy gestures of pale affection. “Fine. But if you’re going to make this harder than it has to be, then you owe me some extremely special hornrubs.”  
  
“Don’t worry. I am the master of extremely special hornrubs.”  
  
She takes a lock of your hair and begins to untangle it with the sharp blades of her claws. She’s careful, methodical, fully focused, and as she unravels the mess you’ve allowed yourself to become, you drag a finger slowly down the perfect point of her left horn. She shivers, stilling for a moment, and returns to her work a little shakier than before.  
  
“I thought you were dead,” she says abruptly. “You were bleeding so much, I couldn’t feel your pulse—when the dreambubble lifted and they took you away, I pretty much lost it.” She takes a deep breath. “Well, regardless, you’re here now.”  
  
You press your palms to the sides of her horns and apply steady pressure as you move up and down. Her eyes flutter closed and a low purr starts from deep in her chest, audible at the edge of your hearing.  
  
She keeps working on your hair. She finds the first strand of barbed wire and recoils, hissing, and you take the scraped fingertip and kiss it. You take a bandage from your sylladex and wrap it around the minuscule injury.  
  
At this point Terezi is halfway in your lap and the rumble of her purr is reverberating through your arms. You reach around, trying not to disturb her, and grab a marker from within the pile. Her mouth twists into a questioning curlicue, and you say, “Shhh,” and draw a very small diamond on the seam of the bandage.  
  
She pauses, surprised, and then starts laughing.  
  
You frown. “Hey! I’m trying to be _sweet_ here.”  
  
“Yes, it is, it’s very sweet, it’s so sugary I can feel my canines collecting cavities, it’s just—” She shakes her head. “Vriska, you are fully capable of murdering someone in cold blood.”  
  
“Thank you?” You’re very confused. To say that someone is capable of doing something ‘in cold blood’ is a compliment; it means comparing them to a member of the nobility.  
  
“We are so _strange,_ ” she says.  
  
She refuses to elaborate on this for several minutes, during which she unravels three strands of wire and you work on making her melt into your embrace. Every time she pulls too hard on your locks, the pain in your scalp mingles with the steady conciliatory contentedness in every part of your body. It heightens the sensation, sending bright, soothing pleasure through your nerve system. You feel drowsy. (You also think you may be developing a mild pain kink. You consider mentioning this to Terezi, but she would probably laugh at you.)  
  
A troll’s urge to confess to their pale or ashen partner is hard to describe, although all those bad erotica novels you read when you were eight sweeps definitely made an effort. For you it’s almost like the urge to cry, something welling up in your throat.  
  
You say, “When I ran into the dreambubble and saw all the ghosts around you, I kind of, um, I kind of thought I was too late for a second there? It looked like you were gone, or worse, or something. I figured you were okay when Megido let you go, but it was. Uh. Yeah.”  
  
“So eloquent, Miss Blueberry, you astound me,” she says, and her next brushstroke starts right at the base of your horn. You shiver violently, muscles turning to molten gold.  
  
And then she goes back to brushing your hair like her last gesture was never even a thing, that fucking _tease._ You narrow your eyes at her, but she looks perfectly innocent, and you can’t tell if it was on purpose or not.  
  
She twirls a particular nasty knot of hair between her claws. “Listen, however romantic your heroics sound in theory, you really must stop doing this! You were very close to being dead.”  
  
“But I’m not.”  
  
“You attacked the Handmaid, the actual _Handmaid._ I know we have sayings like ‘so-and-so looks like they went three rounds with the Demoness,’ but you are not actually supposed to take them seriously.”  
  
You scowl. “I should have won, though. I used a fuckton of luck. Stole a boatload off General Torsha, plus I kept grabbing everything I could when Megido got close enough—”  
  
“You are lucky to be _alive!”_ Suddenly she’s gripping you tight enough to bruise. “You cannot be this reckless. Don’t you remember what happened the last time you went up against someone undefeatable?”  
  
The two of you stay there, frozen face-to-face, for a minute. Her expression is open, desperate. You chew on your lip and say nothing.  
  
She releases you. She dusts off her hands and straightens her cuffs—you know her well enough to know it’s just to look busy. You can’t answer her with words, so you touch her shoulder, wait for her body language to indicate assent, and then you gently push her down until she’s lying on the pile. You take the hairbrush and flick it into your sylladex, deciding that you’re done with that for tonight. You curl up around her.  
  
She’s still looking at you reproachfully. You sigh. “What?”  
  
“I’m still waiting for a response.”  
  
“What, you want a signed contract? ‘I, Admiral Vriska Serket, do solemnly swear to avoid dying dramatically'?”  
  
“Written would be nice, but I’ll settle for a verbal promise.”  
  
You blink. “I—I can’t do that.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because—Terezi, I can’t control the future,” you say. You’re having trouble understanding the question.  
  
“You don’t have to risk yourself like this. Your job is to lounge in a fancy chair while your lackeys fight a war for you. I appreciate that you saved me, but we were close to diplomacy when you decided to attack instead.”  
  
“Megido is insane, we had no idea what she was going to do! Taking her out was the best option.”  
  
“And what if you had died? Would it still have been the best option?”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about this,” you say. You know it’s a cop out, but this conversation is making you want to break something.  
  
“We’re not done here,” she insists. “We—”  
  
You cut off whatever she was about to say by squeezing her horns tight. Her mouth falls open wordlessly. You dedicate yourself to distracting her until she falls asleep.  
  
Once she’s out cold, you stay there for a while and try hard to not think about anything at all. When that doesn’t work, you get up and start writing that report. You leave a space for Terezi to fill in her half of the story and hopefully explain to the empress why your target has taken Rose Lalonde and absconded from the Battleship Condescension.  
  
There’s a standard format for this kind of report. At the end, you’re supposed to make a recommendation for a future course of action. Hesitantly, you begin to type.  
  
_Strategy will be harmed in the short term but Egbert, Strider, and Harley are still of use without Lalonde. As far as Megido is concerned, pursuit is not advised. The only personnel capable of pursuing her would be another SGRUB/SBURB Player, and the potential risk is_  
  
You stop, grimacing. You stroke Terezi’s hair, and you think about the divide between what she would want and what you know you have to do. Then you rewrite the last two sentences.  
  
_As far as Megido is concerned, further action requires regrouping, reevaluation, and reconnaissance. Pursuit is recommended._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm currently out of the country, so my update schedule is wacky and unpredictable. but the good news is, i'm slowly approaching the writing speed that i had when i first began posting this fic, which is exciting for me. so expect more content soon!


	21. calmest coldness was the error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: discussion of vriska's relationship with her lusus, which involves emotional manipulation and strongly resembles child abuse.

“Vriska, wake up.”  
  
You make a sound like “Gnnhhng” and reach out blindly, flapping your hand in Terezi’s general direction. Your palm connects with her glasses. You give her face a few pats and roll over in the recuperacoon. No, wait, this isn’t slime. You must be in your pile.  
  
This is kind of a weird pile. Actually, it kind of feels like you feel asleep at your desk and… oh. That is what happened. Huh.  
  
“You feel asleep on top of your husktop, you total nerd,” Terezi says, tugging at your hooked horn. “I finished that report and approved the requisition forms for weaponry and ship replacements for the troops hit worst in the last offensive against the Drinerus.” She pauses. “It was satisfying, in a very weird way. I think the worst part of the mental conditioning is how I now possess a strong affinity for getting paperwork done.”  
  
“Thought the worst part was the fear thing,” you mumble.  
  
“Thank you for that spectacular demonstration of tact and situational appropriateness! Yes, obviously that’s the worst part, I’m only trying to make light of a bad situation.”  
  
You sit up and rub your eyes. There’s an imprint on your cheek in the shape of a keyboard. You’re still achy from your stint in the infirmary, but it’s less than it was before. You stretch until your joints crack. “What time is it?”  
  
“Half an hour before we’re up before the empress.”  
  
She’s sitting in front of her own computer, so you drape yourself over her shoulders and squint at her screen. She’s skimming through the recent newsfeeds. _DRINERUS SURRENDER, NEGOTIATIONS IN PROGRESS… CHURCH EXECUTES TROLL TAYLOR SWIFT FOR LATEST ALBUM BEING “TOO POPPY,” DECLARES HER MUSIC ANATHEMA… EXCLUSIVE LOOK INTO ADMIRAL SERKET’S WRIGGLERHOOD!!_  
  
Your muscles jerk. There’s a roaring in your auriculars and the world narrows down to a single point. It’s a few seconds before you realize you’re holding on to Terezi hard enough to hurt.  
  
You stand up suddenly. “Sorry,” you say. “I got—startled.” You almost ask her what it says, but that’s a coward’s move, so you say, “Show me it.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes, obviously!”  
  
She clicks the link. You read. The article has a photo of you from the beginning of your training, with your horns small and rounded and your skin pale from youth. Your cadet’s uniform is ill-fitting over your metal arm and your remaining eye looks distrustfully at the camera. The article talks about your lusus, which you were expecting, but…  
  
But nothing. There are a lot of subheadlines in bright, obnoxious fonts, but none of them are negative, exactly. They estimate your cullcount at two hundred; you think it was less than that, but you can’t be sure. It talks about how Terezi was your FLARP partner but completely sidesteps the topic of revenge cycles. It’s a propaganda piece that goes on and on about your daring feats and risky endeavors and how you had the makings of a general from the tender age of three sweeps.  
  
And that’s—good. Yes. Good. You should feel glad about that, right? They appreciate how badass your lusus was and how well it prepared you for the academy! Except instead you feel uneasy and strange.  
  
It’s stupid. It’s not like it was your mom’s fault that you couldn’t always handle her demands, or if sometimes she had to scream and threaten in your head to make you get up and do your job, or if once when you were very young you became so scared that you ran to your neighbor Equius’ hive and banged on the door until he let you hide in his spare block for a day.  
  
“…you okay?” says Terezi.  
  
“Perfect,” you say, enunciating each syllable with the precision of a thrown knife. You realize your mind is searching for something to latch on and get angry at, because the other option is to keep circling around the contents of that newsfeed. “What I want to know is how exactly did Mr. Propaganda Guy find out about all this.”  
  
You look at her accusingly.  
  
She looks affronted. “What? Of course I wouldn’t tell him all that! You might recall that I have enough reasons of my own to be cagey about our wrigglerhood. Including that I’m blind and Mister Cherry-blueberry Funmix had to take me off the culling lists in a less than legal manner.”  
  
You relax a little. “Okay, then who?”  
  
“Who else has extensive knowledge of your FLARPing feats, has a grudge against you, and is in a position to reveal personal details of your life to the empire’s PR department?”  
  
You bite your lip.  
  
“Here, I’ll make it easier for you. It’s one of our old friends. But you can cross out all our acquaintances who are currently in hiding. And probably Gamzee too, since the last we heard of him he was undergoing extensive medical treatment after suffering a nasty case of Nepeta.”  
  
Suddenly it clicks. “Eridan.”  
  
“It is rather his style, isn’t it.”  
  
Unfortunately, you can’t pulverize him for this because he’s an important official of the empire, even if he is only a civilian wimp. Gritting your teeth, you grab your fanciest jacket off the pile and shrug it on. “You should get dressed.”  
  
“I wasn’t aware I was naked.”  
  
“In non-wrinkled clothing,” you clarify, because the honest truth is that both of you have the loose-limbed, rosy-cheeked look of the recently shooshed. You don’t have a lot of fucks to give when it comes to other people judging your appearance, but you have a bad feeling that if you walk into the Condesce’s war room like this, she’s going to waggle her eyebrows or make an inappropriate joke or something, and that’s a fresh layer of humiliation you are not ready to endure.  
  
You change into a dress uniform (not the absolute dressiest of uniforms, though, because there are only so many gold epaulettes you can put on your shoulders before you start to walk hunched over). Terezi irons her clothes and reties the noose around her waist with a crisp legislacerator’s knot. The only thing missing is— “What happened to your cane?” you ask.  
  
“Broke during a heroic battle against an unspeakable foe. Don’t you remember?”  
  
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, totally, and I just asked that question because I like the sound of my own voice.”  
  
“Oh, alright,” says Terezi. She pauses. “What, was that supposed to be sarcastic?”  
  
You kick her in the shin. She dodges deftly.  
  
Once she’s finished using her wardrobifier, she starts poking at yours. “What are all these extra buttons for?”  
  
“Oh… jewelry, tiaras, something like that. Seadweller stuff.”  
  
She gives them a sniff, then starts pressing them at random. There’s a clunking sound. She sorts the results with the sniff-and-lick method you’re familiar with after so much time spent in her company. Most of the glittery items don’t meet her standards, apparently, and they get pushed off to the side, but she tries on the especially brightly-colored ones. “These look like horn caps,” she says, holding up a pair of thick golden bands encrusted in rubies. “Mmm, burgundy.”  
  
“It’s fancy dinner party wear. I think they’re in style this season. You want to wear it?”  
  
“It’s bright red, Admiral Blueberry, how do you expect me to resist?”  
  
“If you take that to the strategy meeting, I’m fairly sure you’ll give at least one of the seadwellers a pusher attack.” There are no formal laws about what tealbloods should or shouldn’t wear, but the societal expectation is that outside of the courtroom they wear simple, nondescript clothing suitable for a clerk. Golden horn caps don’t exactly fit the bill.  
  
“I can’t wait,” she says. She slides the bands down her horns so that they rest a few inches above the bases.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
You get there early, but so does everyone else. There are already stations with screens set up around the table for the officials whose positions leave them in different parts of the galaxy. There are more of them than there are trolls physically present—it’s unusual for the empress to have kept you as close by as she has. But considering the frequency with which Game bullshit invades her night-to-night affairs, it’s a good strategy move on her part. Especially since there is virtually no one else who can provide proper backup if, for example, the Handmaid shows up and tries to murder her.  
  
The Condesce is seated in her amethyst-dazzled chair. A lackey kneels at her feet, carefully painting her claws pink. He has scraggly horns and the terrified look of someone who knows they are one stray drop of nail polish from being executed on the spot. “What’s up?” she says once everyone has filed in. “You, Shore-sha, you’re up first.”  
  
General Torsha clears her throat. “This is a security meeting, so I assume you’re asking about the measures to secure the Battleship after the recent incident.”  
  
“Yeah. I want some diagnostics up in here.”  
  
Torsha gestures to her Second, who smoothly opens a folder and places it in front of her. (You’re a bit surprised that she’s old-fashioned enough to prefer paper to digital. Like, a-thousand-sweeps-old-fashioned.) She skims it, nods, and closes it again. “The sysadministraitors tell us all systems have fully recovered, but there’s nothing to indicate how the breach was perpetrated two nights ago.”  
  
Looks are exchanged. “Nothing?” asks another of the empress’s generals.  
  
“They know that the decrease in power that caused the blackout originated from the helmsman, but there’s no trace of any outside interference.”  
  
From the helmsman? That’s news to you. You have to admit that you didn’t give much thought to the actual mechanics of how Megido screwed around with the ship.  
  
Your palmhusk buzzes.  
  
GC: H3R PS1ON1CS W3R3 R3D 4ND BLU3  
GC: BUT 4R4D14S 4B1L1T13S W3R3 N3V3R R3D 4ND BLU3  
GC: TH3Y W3R3NT V1S1BL3 4T 4LL  
GC: 4ND 1 DOUBT D4M4R4S W3R3 4NY D1FF3R3NT  
  
Another official leans forward. From his uniform, he’s from the civilian senate’s department of agriculture. “I’m sorry? The worst security breach this ship has had in centuries came directly from the helm, and no one can tell how it happened?”  
  
“I assure you, I share your concern,” says Torsha. “I’m very concerned that directly after the blackout ceased, the corridor of floor twelve as well as floors eleven and thirteen were interrupted by a multicolored, spherical protrusion of unknown xenobiological significance that looked like something out of a juggalo’s prayerbook. _Miracles,_ my esteemed colleagues.”  
  
The Condesce waves her frond. “I told you, you don’t need to worry atrout that. It’s been handled.”  
  
“With all due respect—”  
  
“Funny, you don’t sound like you think that’s all that much,” says the empress with a smile as harmless as a nuclear warhead.  
  
Torsha’s Second reaches over and rests a calming hand on her shoulder. The general stiffens, then continues in a measured voice, “Your condescension, the purpose of advisers is to advise. We cannot do that if you withhold such vital information. Or if you reserve it for the…” She glances at you. “…inexperienced.”  
  
“Mmm, nope, don’t think so. I like that you’ve got globes of steel, but you need to re-sea-ve this message: that topic is off-limits. Got it?”  
  
“Yes, your condescension.”  
  
Against your will your estimation of Torsha goes up a notch, because she says that with a straight face.  
  
“Now.” The empress slams the table. “If anyone here has any bright ideas aboat how to eel with this helm hacking situation, you betta speak up.”  
  
Your gaze strays back to your palmhusk. Terezi is trying to tell you something important.  
  
AG: You think Megido hij8cked the helm?  
GC: VR1SK4  
GC: STOP TH1NK1NG L1K3 4N 4DM1R4L  
  
Terezi is typing at her husktop, facing away from you, and aside from the ruby-red horn ornaments she appears for all intents and purposes like every other loyal Auxiliary at the table. She has open a window showing security reports from the past perigee that hides the trollian conversation.  
  
GC: YOUV3 FORGOTT3N TH3 H3LM 1S 4 P3RSON  
GC: DONT YOU R3M3MB3R WHO TH3 ΨS11ON1C 1S  
  
Some part of you manages to be annoyed at how she sneaks the Ψ character into her coding. You were never great at computer stuff.  
  
AG: You mean My-Swordfish or whatever his name is?  
GC: M1TUN4 >8]  
GC: B3FORUS D4M4R4 W4S FR13NDS W1TH H1M  
GC: W3LL SH3 KN3W H1M 4T L34ST  
GC: 1F TH3 TR3ND OF 4LT3RN14N TROLLS R3C4LL1NG TH31R B3FOR4N COUNT3RP4RTS HOLDS STRONG TH3N M1TUN4 M1GHT H4V3 F3LT TH3 URG3 TO 4SS1ST H1S 4SSOC14T3 FROM 4 D1FF3R3NT UN1V3RS3  
AG: Plus I 8et he really h8s the empress’s guts, after a few millennia in a helmrig.  
GC: Y34H 1 DOUBT TH3 H3LMSM4N 1S 4BOUT TO W1N 4LT3RN14S TOP P4TR1OT 4NYT1M3 SOON  
AG: Okay, 8ut.  
AG: Don’t get me wrong, this is a super cool theory and all, 8ut it’s got a 8it of a pro8lem.  
AG: Helmtrolls are 8raindead!!!!!!!!  
GC: DOOM PL4Y3RS H4V3 4 STR4NG3 R3L4T1ONSH1P W1TH D34TH  
GC: 1 WOULDNT B3 SURPR1S3D 1F SOM3 TYP3 OF SH3N4N1G4N W4S 4T PL4Y H3R3  
  
Meanwhile, a seadweller with a wobbly accent is explaining a far-fetched theory that involves a random glitch in the time measurement systems, biowire secretion slipping into the food supply, and a secret society of helmtechs. The empress does not look impressed.  
  
AG: So should I tell her?  
GC: YOU M34N H3R COND3SC3NS1ON  
AG: Yeah.  
GC: YOU COULD  
GC: BUT 1M SUR3 1TS OCCURR3D TO H3R 4LR34DY  
GC: 1T WOULD B3 ODD 1F 1T H4DNT  
AG: …then why would she call a security meeting?  
GC: H3Y 1M NOT TH3 M1NDR34D3R H3R3  
AG: Come oooooooon, you know my powers don’t work like that.  
AG: 8esides, we all know you’re the smart one.  
AG: <>  
GC: 4W  
GC: BUT YOU H4V3 4 PO1NT 4BOUT TH3 PURPOS3 OF TH1S M33T1NG  
GC: M4YB3  
GC: HMM  
GC: 1M NOT 4 S33R OF H34RT BUT M4YB3 SH3 JUST DO3SNT L1K3 TH3 1D34 TH4T H3R P3T H3LMSM4N OF THOUS4NDS OF SW33PS M1GHT B3 ON TH3 V3RG3 OF R3B3LL1ON  
GC: 1 M34N  
GC: 1T WOULD B3 L1K3 W4K1NG UP 4ND W4NT1NG 4 N1C3 CUP OF C4FF31N4T3D B34N JU1C3 ONLY TO F1ND TH4T TH3 B34N JUIC3 PR3SS3R W4S MOUNT1NG 4N 4RM3D OFF3NS1V3  
  
The greatest minds of the empire, draped in silks and jewels, discuss every possible explanation for the malfunction under the moon and are completely unable to come up with a single plausible theory. Halfway through, the empress dismisses her manicurist. It gives you a start—you had completely forgotten he was there. He was as noticeable as wallpaper. He spent an hour covering her claws in pink glitter and honing the tips until they are sharp enough to cull, without his gaze ever rising higher than table height.  
  
Or at least you assume so. Now that you think about, if he had been listening the whole time, if for some reason he had been keeping track of names and faces and power dynamics with the aim of reporting back to someone, you wouldn’t know. It’s an alarming thought. You remind yourself that the servants of higher-ups go through extensive background checks and psychic interrogation. But you _know_ psychics, and if they use the type of technique that allows for mental invasion without entirely destroying the victim’s thinkpan, there will always be that one lowblood out of a thousand who is too damn stubborn for it to work… and you would have to be stubborn to be an insurgent plant, wouldn’t you?  
  
No. You’re being ridiculous. The Condesce isn’t worried about it.  
  
(And even if it was a problem, what then, do you warn the empress who has control over every aspect of your well-being? Do you stay quiet to serve your allies—friends, for Terezi—who wear the Sufferer’s symbol? Knowing that your status, your wealth, your power, your life, is inextricably linked to a troll you despise?)  
  
The Condesce examines her nails languidly. “Yeah, this isn’t getting us any-weir soon. I think it’s time you lot cleared out so I can hear my-shell-f think. I don’t need all of you in one room and I know none of you like being here either, so go on and scram, guppies.”  
  
As you’re leaving, the empress flicks your shoulder. “Not you, Sea-rket. Or your Second.”  
  
You wait as the rest file out of the room. The guards close the door behind them without a word, and part of your mind starts wondering about them, too.  
  
GC: 1 C4N SM3LL TH3 P4R4NO14 ON YOU  
GC: SOM3TH1NG 1 N33D TO KNOW 4BOUT >8?  
AG: I’m 8eing ridiculous.  
AG: Shocking, I know.  
  
The empress lets you stew for a few minutes, fiddling with her tiaratop. Then she says, “I saw your reef-port. You said you wanted to chase after Megido.”  
  
Terezi stiffens. Yeah, she didn’t see that bit. You know she disapproves, but you can’t have that argument right now, so you don’t look at her. You nod. “It’s a bad idea to wait until she flies off the handle and attacks again.”  
  
“But the only pier-sonnel who can pull that off is another Player. More than one, since she made quick work of you.”  
  
The scar on your throat twinges with the memory. “It means bringing one of the humans. I’d have to direct it since we don’t want them wandering around unsupervised, and in any case it’s probably not great to leave them with too much free time on their hands—” You have a mental image of John embarking on a prank campaign across the Battleship Condescension. “—plus I could spin it as a chance to retrieve Lalonde. They’d be willing to risk a lot to help her.”  
  
“It’s plau-sea-ble, and—”  
  
“Your condescension,” Terezi interrupts.  
  
Shit. You knew she wouldn’t take this well.  
  
The Condesce looks mildly surprised at being interrupted, in a vaguely superior way, but not excessively upset. “Yes?”  
  
“Your condescension, are you sure this is… entirely wise?” Terezi is shaking, in a barely perceptible way that you’ve come to recognize as a response to her psychic conditioning inflicting a negative consequence on her mind. Her claws grasp at the air, as if searching for the reassuring weight of a cane that she doesn’t have.  
  
“Whale, I don’t enact battle plans for the hell of it,” says the empress, dangerously pleasant. “Or, whale, I do. It’s more that no one quest-sea-ons my battle plans, because it’s not good for their health.”  
  
“Admiral Serket does not have an advantage here,” says Terezi. “She entirely exhausted her hoard of luck in a failed attempt to defeat the Handmaid, who is not an opponent generally considered beatable. She’s recovering from a near-fatal wound—”  
  
“I’m fine,” you say.  
  
Terezi barrels on as if you never said a word. “In her fight, the admiral has already exposed her tactical weaknesses, and this is an enemy who is almost certainly clever enough to use them to her advantage. Also, we don’t know if this will involve combat with the Handmaid, or with the Handmaid _and_ Rose Lalonde. That’s not an insignificant addition.”  
  
“You’re sea-jetty-ing that Lalonde may have switched sides?”  
  
Terezi hesitates. “Sea-jetty-ing?”  
  
“Suggesting,” you say quickly, before the empress can get irritated.  
  
Terezi nods sharply. “We have no idea what her motivations are here, or how her goals might change now that they’re—off doing whatever they’re doing. Right now, the best move is to recoup and wait for reconnaissance to come in.”  
  
“How?” says the Condesce.  
  
“…your condescension?”  
  
“How do we obtain reconnaissance? She’s gone, Pyrope. Someone has to follow her. It’s very shrimple.”  
  
“I—”  
  
“Luckily for you,” the empress says, “you’re right about one thing. Serket didn’t mako the cut. For one thing, the Megido you grew up with alraydy kicked your ass twice. I mean, you outright krilled her and she came back as a robot just to kick your bass again.”  
  
“I was six sweeps,” you protest.  
  
The empress ignores you. “But the thing is, I still need this done. I don’t think you two have any concept of how big a sea-curity risk this shit is. So I’m sending someone, just not _her._ See, you’re forgetting something reel im-port-ant. You two aren’t the only Players from your session.”  
  
Silence. You and Terezi both stare at her blankly. Well, Terezi always stares blankly, but still, it’s plain that neither of you have any clue what she’s going on about. Karkat, Kanaya, Sollux, and Tavros are busy being insurgent heroes on some backwater planet somewhere, Feferi is (probably) dead,  Gamzee is becoming the creepy murderclown he always wanted to be, Nepeta is on trial for treason and Equius is being questioned as an accomplice, and Aradia’s ghost has soul-merged with two other trolls and a shard of paradox space. The only Player left is…  
  
No.  
  
“ _Fuck_ no,” you say aloud. “Oh my fucking—not _him_ —”  
  
“Yes, I thought you’d feel that way,” says the Condesce. “Good thing that I’m the empress and you’re not, right?”  
  
“He doesn’t have any combat experience!”  
  
“He doesn’t have any _military_ experience,” she corrects. “There are other ways to learn to cull. And he has ex-pier-ience with this exact type of as-sand-ment.”  
  
“You can’t be serious,” you say, but before you can elaborate on that, there’s a chime from the door.  
  
“Aaand there he is. Right on time,” says the empress, as Eridan Ampora walks inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i felt like the three-way conversation at the end might be confusing to follow, sorry about that. let me know if you see any typos/awkward sentence constructions/etc, and if you have any other constructive criticism i'd be happy to hear it, although i can't promise i'll follow your suggestion. 
> 
> regarding terezi's minor html fanciness, that was a reference to how in canon, everyone else sends links in a separate message, but terezi knows how to embed them in text (e.g. D4V3 1S TH1S YOU?). someone once asked hussie why that was the case, and he was just like, "because terezi's smart like that." (in order to get the Ψ symbol, type & P s i ; but without the spaces.)
> 
> by the way, if anyone likes vriska analysis — several months ago, @[revolutionarygays](http://revolutionarygays.tumblr.com/) sent me [some fantastic meta for this fic](http://unintelligible-screaming.tumblr.com/post/156512939362/also-deeper-and-more-heavy-iwddos-commentary-i), and i responded with my own. maybe some of you would enjoy it?


	22. lacking only certain data

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not dead yet!
> 
> (oh, uh, if you're picking this back up after a while not reading, you might wanna reread at least the last chapter to figure out what's going on. or not! you do you.)

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you can't believe your nose. Is that _really_ Eridan standing there radiating smugness like a nuclear power plant that produces a misguided sense of superiority rather than electricity? Is his dumb little cape _really_ that silly-looking? Is the empress _really_ about to assign him the task of hunting down the Demoness herself?  
  
He inclines his head dismissively. “Admiral.” He doesn’t bother acknowledging you.  
  
Rather than responding, Vriska turns to the Condesce and says, “You actually trust this guy?”  
  
The Condesce shrugs. Her hair cascades with the movement. “I trust him to pier-form reconnaissance on Megido’s whale-abouts, intentions, and ab-eel-ities.”  
  
“Your magnificent cruelty,” you say, bowing your head slightly, “while this sounds plausible in theory, I feel compelled to mention that Ampora has a history of disloyalty. Backstabbing, in fact.”  
  
“That is blatant slander,” says Eridan.  
  
Your eyebrows shoot up over the top of your shades. “You destroyed the matriorb. You tried to join up with Jack Noir. You murdered your ex-moirail for the crime of dating someone else in a different quadrant—”  
  
“What I was _tryin’_ to say is that I shot Peixes in the front, not the back. Major difference,” Eridan says. “Now, I’ll admit the whole business had a certain backstabby quality, but if we’re goin’ for accuracy here…”  
  
Vriska says, “Oh, and speaking of accuracy, what _is_ your blasterkind target strike rate? You do regularly measure that based on imperial military standards, right? I mean, the only reason you wouldn’t would be if you _didn’t_ receive formal combat training, which,” she pauses to chuckle with obvious insincerity, “I mean, it would be _ridiculous_ to take on a mission like this without the right training.”  
  
The Condesce pulls her 2x3dent and slams it against the floor. Sparks fly. Everyone flinches back. “Serket, I told you to cut it out,” she says. “So clam up, will ya?”  
  
Vriska clams up.  
  
“Ampora isn’t going to engage with the target. He’s going to track her. That’s it, under-sand?” The empress levels a cool glare. Eridan nods very quickly. Her gaze flickers back to Vriska. “And I’m willing to hand him this assignment because he’s already given me some useful intel regarding the resurgence of the cult of the Sufferer.”  
  
Oh.  
  
You immediately begin running through contingency plans in your mind. It would be helpful if you actually had any contingency plans to fall back on in the event that Eridan or the Condesce somehow discovers that you’re not only in contact with but in cahoots with Karkat, Kanaya, and Sollux. You don’t think Eridan has enough information to implicate you, but the fact that he was the one who brought it to the empress’s attention rather than Vriska probably doesn’t look good.  
  
“Now. You two.” The Condesce turns to you and Vriska. “When Megido showed up here, she said something interesting. She mentioned _shards.”_  
  
“She did,” says Vriska.  
  
“Any news on that?”  
  
You both hesitate. You get the feeling that Vriska wants you to make the judgment call on this, so you speak up with a lie. “She brought it up again in her conversation with Lalonde, but frankly, she wasn’t coherent enough for us to piece together her meaning. I’ll look into it, but I doubt I’ll find anything.”  
  
“I bet ya won’t,” says the empress. “Because whatever it is, it seems powerful, and I’d bet my favorite rocket launcher that it’s connected to the Game. I want it in my fronds, not anyone else’s. That’s what I want you to tell me more about, Ampora.”  
  
He bows. The scent of obsequiousness is quite palpable; it’s sharp and sickly, like rotting citrus.  
  
The empress says, “Serket, Pyrope, you have other duties to deal with. Scram.”  
   
You do.  
  
Eridan’s smirk follows you on the way out. The moment that the guards close the door to the throne block behind you, Vriska says, “Well, fuck!”  
  
A wide-open corridor is not the best place for this conversation, so you say, “Let’s spar.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Let’s go to the training course and spar,” you repeat. “I’m out of practice, and I think we both need to hit something right now.”  
  
“But I don’t want to punch just anything,” she says. “I want to punch him.”  
  
“Fair! But that doesn’t really appear to be an option at the moment, so I suppose we’ll have to settle for drawing a pair of wiggly purple lines onto a punching bag.”  
  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
  
\--  caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \--  
  
CA: vvris  
AG: Wow, you still haven’t changed your handle, huh?  
CA: shut up  
CA: some of us havve a brand to maintain  
AG: That’s one way to put it.  
CA: so  
CA: anywways  
CA: i was thinkin  
AG: Oh, please don’t, you might hurt yourself.  
CA: i was thinkin that this isnt the first time that the battleships security has been compromised in the last few months  
CA: weeks evven  
CA: bit of a wweird coincidence dont you think  
CA: the flagship a the fleet isnt exactly somethin you typically think of as bein easy to break into  
CA: kinda fucked up that the moment you arrive suddenly everythin goes wrong  
AG: What a8out it?  
CA: trouble is im not sure its a coincidence at all  
AG: Wow. Insightful. Good thing I give exactly zero shits a8out anything you say ever.  
CA: i dunno about megido but when the empress sent drones after the insurgent headquarters an they all mysteriously packed up and left just in time to avoid bein hunted down  
CA: there must have been an inside agent  
CA: someone who tipped them off  
CA: an you were always real pally with kar and the rest of them  
AG: So were you???????? Do you just not remem8er our wrigglerhood, like, at all????????  
CA: yeah wwe wwere all friends  
CA: until all a you fuckin abandoned me  
AG: Hahahahahahahaha! Oh man, that is a fucking WILD statement. I’d ask what the fuck kind of calculations your 8rain went through to get that conclusion, but I’ve decided I don’t want to know.  
AG: Like you didn’t 8etray the rest of us to hell and 8ack first!  
CA: come on vvris im hardly the only one a the twelve a us whos guilty of a little betrayal  
CA: i wouldnt havve been forced to take the extreme route if any a you had bothered to givve me the slightest bit a consideration  
AG: This convers8tion is like one of those reality TV programs where you know that all the participants are only going to fuck up in the most secondhand-em8arrassment-inducing ways possi8le, and you know it’s going to 8e physically painful to witness, but you can’t stop watching 8ecause the fuck ups are so entertaining.  
CA: wwhatever you say serket  
CA: just dont be shocked wwhen i finish diggin up the evidence i need to expose you for the traitor to the empire you are  
  
\-- caligulasAquarium [CA] ceased trolling admiralGrandstander [AG] \--  
  
  
You dart over Vriska’s shoulder and give her screen a lick to read the conversation. She pushes your face out of the way with a palm. “Hey,” you say, muffled, and lick her hand.  
  
“Ew.” She flicks you on the nose and withdraws her hand.  
  
You soak a towel in cool water and drape it over your neck. You’re tired and sweaty after the sparring session, although it took about half an hour for Vriska to stop pulling her punches. You think she’s underestimated the quality of your combat training, probably because you haven’t been the most impressive in combat in the past few perigees. That comes from the main difference in your training, which is that she was trained mostly to kill enemy soldiers, and you were trained mostly to incapacitate subjects for questioning. Execution was always at a later, more ceremonial date. You’re smaller and less muscled than she is, which is a disadvantage, but you’re more or less on even footing in any fight that isn’t to the death.  
  
“You think he’ll pose a problem?” you ask.  
  
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she says airily.  
  
You’re perfectly aware that Eridan could show up with the entire Fleet’s nuclear arsenal primed and targeted to her location and she would still announce that it was nothing she couldn’t handle, so this does not convince you.  
  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
  
Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are standing in a vast wasteland of pale ice and packed snow; nothing but flat white as far as you can see. You look out at the horizon and find that it’s disconcertingly close—wherever you are, it’s a planet smaller than Earth. The wind whips through your hair and chills you to the bone, but you try not to visibly shiver on principle.  
  
The shard of the Game lodged inside you twists. Seeking.  
  
The Handmaid appears beside you, for a moment wreathed in the same iridescent rainbow glow that you recognize from the dreambubbles. Sparks dance around her wrists and temples, and as she turns to you, you have to suppress an entirely different kind of shiver, because she has none of Aradia’s offbeat, friendly manner. The undeniable fact is that she is terrifying. There is something in the set of her shoulders and the deep dark red of her eyes that scares you more than anything the Condesce has ever done.  
  
“Where is this?” you ask. Basics first.  
  
“A solar system several galaxies away from the Battleship Condescension. Colonized by Alternian forces about a hundred sweeps ago. There’s not much on the surface, but underground, there’s a vast cavern system where the empire has established mines for precious minerals rarely found elsewhere. Highly dangerous conditions. Mostly slave labor.” Megido smiles. It’s not a happy smile. It’s more like she doesn’t quite remember what happiness is supposed to be like, but she’s doing her best to act it out. “There’s a lot of death here.”  
  
You nod. Part of your senses is staring straight at her soul—you don’t find much use for your amalgamated Seer of Heart powers, but now they allow you to get an inkling of what’s wrong with the troll in front of you, and _hoo boy_ , it’s a doozy. Most of her is only a troll in the technical sense. She is the idea of death more than she is anything physical, and your guess is that’s how she came here and how she got onto the Battleship in the first place: where death lives, she lives.  
  
The parts of her that aren’t a specter of mortality are harder to pick apart. You can tell that there are two souls inside her in addition to the soul-like thing that makes up the Handmaid’s essence, and they’re not merged together like yours and Dirk’s, or like John and Jane’s. They writhe and stretch away from each other, desperate to break free like magnets whose matching ends are forced together. The thing holding them in place is calling out to its companion in your chest. Her souls have been speared through by one of the few remaining pieces of Paradox Space’s cosmic code.  
  
_I think I have an idea,_ says Dirk. He visualizes a scenario and shares it with you.  
  
You swallow, nervous. It’s not the best plan in the world, but she’s staring at you with intent expectation and you don't know how long she’ll let you delay.  
  
“Please don't murder me for this,” you say.  
  
Dirk’s clean, chilly power surges through you, and you thrust your hand up and into her heart.  
  
In the place where your wrist would have collided with her physical body, it looks like your hand has dissolved into a bright, pure light. Your fingers brush against the core of her being and every bone in your body screams with pain as both shards lurch toward each other, longing to be whole again.  
  
“What—” the Handmaid starts.  
  
You ignore her. You’re not an idiot, you know that if you let the shards come together there will be consequences, and whether or not they’ll be good or bad is less important than the question of how your fragile human flesh will fare if you expose it to a Sburb-powered supernova or whatever the hell would happen. You especially don’t want to find out when you have your hand sticking halfway into someone else’s soul. So you fight with every ounce of mental energy you possess to prevent the shard from escaping.  
  
_Come on come on come on!_ says Dirk. _Remember, you just have to grab Aradia and—_  
  
“I’m _aware_ , will you _shut up_ and let me—”  
  
You twist your fingers just right. Then you take back your hand.  
  
It’s like snapping a rubber band. The two of you stumble apart. You’re so dizzy that you promptly fall onto your ass, and then decide to lie down until the afterimages swimming across your sight go away. You no longer feel as if your flesh is about to tear into a billion microscopic pieces, which is great, but you also have a killer headache, which is not so great.  
  
You flop onto your back, too exhausted to care about the cold snow seeping through your clothes. You really should be speaking to the person you just performed impromptu soul-surgery on, but being horizontal is pretty much all you can handle at the moment.  
  
After several minutes, you hear Megido’s chipper voice. “Well! That was certainly unexpected!”  
  
She sounds unhurried, and a lot less ominous than before. Maybe it worked. You can’t muster the energy to get up and check.  
  
The next thing you know, a strong grip is tugging at your arm. You mumble something incoherent and try to get back to falling asleep. You hear: “Don’t be silly, you’ll get hypothermia, and it looks like you have some kind of head wound? It’s sealed up, but you’ve still got a bit of dried blood in your hair.”  
  
Oh yeah. You forgot about that.  
  
She helps you to your feet and you manage to stay upright without falling over after three tries. Now that you think about it, it may have been a bad idea to try this while still recovering from a concussion.  
  
Megido still looks like an adult troll, around the same age as Terezi or Vriska, but she is no longer hovering an inch off the ground. Her posture is different. When you squint at her, assessing, she smiles back, and it’s a genuine smile, if a little strange.  
  
“Hi,” she says.  
  
“Hello,” you say cautiously.  
  
Awkward silence.  
  
Eventually she says, “Okay. That was strange. What exactly happened?”  
  
“Well, you and your other two… companions were all controlling your body in tandem. You couldn’t separate your thoughts. I could pull one of you to the surface, and I thought you might be the best choice.” You pause. “You _are_ Aradia, right?”  
  
“Yep!”  
  
“Oh, good. I mean, not that I wasn’t confident, but…” You trail off as Aradia continues to smile at you in a manner that clearly indicates that she can see right through your bullshit. You clear your throat. “It won’t last forever. I think the only way it will be permanent is if the three of you collectively decided to let one of you hold the reins, so to speak.”  
  
She nods, thoughtful. “What would happen to them if I stayed like this?”  
  
You hesitate. They’re not bonded to each other as securely and comfortably as Dirk is to you, so… “I can’t be totally sure. But I think they would just fade. If they tried very hard, they might be able to broadcast a thought to you every now and then, but otherwise, it would be like sleeping.”  
  
“Or death.”  
  
“…yes.”  
  
“Hmm. Don’t get me wrong, this is quite nice. Much better than eternal torture. But we’ll have to think it over.”  
  
Aradia’s gaze drifts calmly over the landscape, undeterred by her thin clothes and bare arms. Snowflakes land in her hair and ice gleams under her ragged shoes, but she doesn’t seem to notice. You, on the other hand, can’t feel your toes. “Listen,” you say after a while, “I don’t mean to ruin the moment or anything, but, well, I may be conditionally immortal but I don’t actually enjoy dying, and freezing to death is a bit slow for my tastes.”  
  
“There are much worse ways to die.”  
  
“Yes, and I’ve experienced most of them. I’m just not particularly interested in a refresher course!”  
  
“Oh, fine,” says Aradia, laughing, and grabs your hand. Her skin burns like a fire.  
  
The next thing you know, you are somewhere entirely different.  
  
The light of late afternoon is gentle. The air is warm. The trees shelter you from the brunt of the sun’s heat, although this is not the kind of sun that is deadly. The leaves rustle, small creatures skitter from trunk to trunk, insects call to each other, and you realize how long it’s been since you heard sounds that weren’t the inorganic clanks of iron and plastic and steel.  
  
You ask, “Where are we?”  
  
“I think you’d know better than me.”  
  
You breathe in the scent of the eucalyptus leaves, slow and shaky. If you listen carefully, you can hear the faint rush of waves in the distance. The light is molten gold, nothing like the cold, impersonal white lighting of the Battleship. “The coast. I’d guess southern California.”  
  
“Well, it’s somewhere on Earth, that’s for sure! I don’t know about those other things.” She shrugs. You realize she’s breathing heavily. You twitch your eyebrows at her, and she makes a face. “The way I am right now, I don’t think I can make too many leaps like that. I’ve only got a few more in me left.”  
  
“Why did you take me here?”  
  
“I told you. We have to think it over,” she says. She sits down with her back against a tree and turns her face to the sky, peaceful, as if counting the clouds. As you watch, occasionally her face will twitch, like she’s having a conversation somewhere inside her brain.  
  
You slip away discreetly. She doesn't seem like she’s interested in conversation, and you are aching to take a look around.  
  
The trees soon give way to a field of scrubby grass, dotted with patches of watercress. A squirrel dashes across a dirt path, and you marvel at the quiver of its tail and the lively gleam of its eyes. You have two childhoods: one in which this world was shattered by aliens, one in which this world was shattered by meteors. But Earth is alive, even in its shattered state, and it feels like a dream.  
  
You wander down the dirt path, listening to the birds singing over each other, and as you walk, the air becomes tinged with sea salt. Your suspicions are confirmed when the watercress patches expand and you reach the edge of a short cliff. Below, a sandy beach that gives way to the ocean. It’s idyllic, or at least it would be if it weren’t for the trash drifting on the waves and the plastic bags choking the tide pools. But despite the pollution that has only worsened since the Alternian takeover, the horizon is flat and blue and clean, a knife’s edge cutting through your restlessness.  
  
_Just like home,_ says Dirk.  
  
_This is what we gave up our freedom for,_ you think back.  
  
You walk toward the waves, shoes sinking into the wet sand. Those are the shoes that you left on a stair in a dark corridor on a meteor when you kissed the love of your life for the first time, and you realize that one of the things that you gave up when you made a deal with the Condesce was a chance to kiss Kanaya ever again.  
  
You wade into the shallows and watch the seagulls for a while. Eventually you wander back to where Aradia is sitting in the cluster of trees.  
  
“We’ve decided,” she says, spotting you between two sweeping eucalyptuses. “It’s just me from now on!”  
  
“Aradia?” you guess.  
  
“Yes.” She rubs her forehead. “Damara doesn’t understand Alternia and she doesn’t like it much either, and the Demoness wants to rest after all these thousands and thousands of years that she’s spent awake. And unlike them, I never got a chance to live. I spent more time as a ghost or a robot than I did as a troll.”  
  
“Oh, thank god,” you say. “Not that I believe an entity like that exists, other than the horrorterrors, but I am _so_ glad that I am no longer dealing with the being known as the Handmaid of Death. No offense, I’m sure she’s a wonderful person, but we didn’t meet under the best circumstances.” You never interacted much with Aradia either, but so far she hasn’t tried to kill anyone or explode anything, which is a definite plus.  
  
“The feeling is mutual. Sort of. Emotions are weird for her. By the way—do you have any idea what the fuck is going on with Terezi and Vriska?”  
  
You snort. “Isn’t that just the question of the century.”  
  
“Well?”  
  
“I think they’re dating.”  
  
_“Why?”_  
  
“I honestly have no idea. It may be one of those forbidden mysteries that human- and troll-kind were not meant to solve.”  
  
“I feel like I’m missing a puzzle piece here,” says Aradia. “Has Vriska gotten better or has Terezi gotten worse?”  
  
“You mean morally? I can’t tell.”  
  
“I should learn not to try and unravel other people’s relationship drama. It always gives me a headache.” Aradia sighs. “So have you decided?”  
  
You blink. “What?”  
  
“You know. Have you decided what you’re going to do next?”  
  
“I thought I was going to return to the Battleship Condescension… you know, where John and Jade and Dave are?”  
  
She still looks blank, so you explain about the contract you made to ensure Earth’s safety. When you finish, her response is: “Seriously? You’re actually going along with that?”  
  
“Did you have a better idea?”  
  
“No, I thought _you_ —aren’t you angry?”  
  
“Of course,” you say coldly.  
  
“Doesn’t that make you want to act?”  
  
“Yes, but I can distinguish between foolish impulse and logical strategy, thank you very much.”  
  
“I remember you destroying an entire gate and trying to crash Sburb during the Game,” she says. “You’ve never struck me as someone who was okay with being controlled like this.”  
  
“I was thirteen years old, and if you recall correctly, that fiasco ended horribly for everyone involved,” you snap. “We are trying to minimize destruction—”  
  
“Here.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Here. You’re minimizing destruction here. What about the other planets? There are thousands and thousands of Alternian colonies. Do you know how many sentient beings have died? Because I do. I’d tell you exactly how many, but the number is so long that it would take me several minutes to finish saying it, and besides our minds can’t even fully imagine numbers larger than ten trillion.”  
  
“They’re already dead. I can’t fix that now.”  
  
“Okay. Have you thought about how many more are going to die because the Condesce has your powers on her side?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, the four of us aren’t powerful enough to turn the tide.”  
  
“She thinks you are. And I think she knows more about conquest than you do.”  
  
“Fine!” You throw your hands in the air. “You can stop now. Message received. I’m selfish and terrible and illogical and cowardly. Kanaya’s already told me so, although she used nicer phrasing. But I’m not going to change my mind, because _this_ right here, this planet, is my home, and I am going to protect it.”  
  
She gives you another one of those looks that make you feel like your thoughts are as transparent as cellophane, but you don’t flinch. She’s not the only one who can pull off the ‘unnervingly knowing’ aesthetic.  
  
“Okay,” she says, breaking eye contact first. You hand yourself a mental congratulations for winning the staring contest, but it feels hollow. You just can’t muster up the petty enjoyment right now.  
  
Aradia says again, “Okay. Another important question.”  
  
“Yes?” you say, impatient.  
  
“The third shard.”  
  
Your breath catches. Right. The shards within each of you are still tugging at each other, and it aches, but you’re getting better at ignoring it, and faintly underneath that you feel another sensation, another tug, far more distant but still making itself known. “The third shard,” you echo.  
  
_We need to figure out what happens if the shards are united,_ Dirk urges from the back of your frontal lobe. _I’m predicting some kind of energy explosion, but there could be other consequences. Of the universe-shattering kind. And we don’t have any spare timelines to duck into if this one goes kablooey._  
  
_And after the chaos the Handmaid caused, I think it’s imperative that we find and speak to the person holding the third shard before they do something disastrous,_ you reply. Out loud, you say, “We need to find them.”  
  
“Agreed,” says Aradia. “But I don’t know how.”  
  
You consider the tug in your gut, and the unique energy signature that the shards radiate. It’s more obvious now that you’ve played around with them more. “I’m a seer. I think I may be able to contribute,” you say, and you concentrate on that pull.  
  
Several minutes later—or at least, you guess that it’s several minutes later, you’ve lost track of the passage of time—Aradia says, “Are you alright? You look like Sollux just before he gets a really bad migraine.”  
  
“I’m peachy,” you gasp, and then pain pulses through your temples so hard that you nearly black out. Somehow you manage to stay on your feet. The pull from the third shard is almost within your grasp. Just a little longer. “I’m going to try and push forward this energy signature, or whatever it’s called, words are so hard—I almost have it—and you have to sense it from me and take us there, got it?”  
  
“That sounds inadvisable and unlikely—”  
  
“I’m a specialist in unlikely,” you say, and then you have it, and the power of the third shard is reverberating through your bones. It’s not a sensation that is easy to describe.  
  
You see Aradia reach out with her hands, and then your stomach lurches and she’s taken you to your destination.  
  
You both gaze around.  
  
You see—  
  
_Dark water. Brief glimmers of light._  
  
_A shape, floating._  
  
_You come closer. It's a body. Asleep or dead, you can’t tell._  
  
_You get close enough to see the face._  
  
Before you can react to what you see, a pulse of energy pushes against you so hard that it feels like a thousand needles piercing your brain. It’s not from the shard—it feels entirely different—but it hurtles you and Aradia out of this place.  
  
You land on cold ice. You look around blearily. You’re back on the frozen wasteland planet.  
  
Beside you, Aradia is groaning. “Oh _no,_ ” she says.  
  
“My thoughts exactly,” you say, and scramble to your feet. The snow is soaking into your clothes. You barely notice; you’re still trying to process. “What was that?”  
  
“I think you know.”  
  
She’s right. You saw enough of the figure to recognize her. “I wish I didn’t. This…”  
  
“It changes everything.”  
  
“I wouldn’t go that far,” you say. “I… I’m still thinking through the implications. Especially considering that energy pulse was clearly a defense mechanism, and not from the shard. That place is guarded against psionic and psychic penetration.”  
  
“Well, it means you’re definitely not going back to the Battleship,” says Aradia, laughing in the disbelieving manner of someone who is teetering on the edge of a breakdown. You can understand the feeling.  
  
“I have to.”  
  
“Are you listening? Did we see the same thing? The same _person_ carrying the shard? It’s almost as bad as it would be if it were actually the Condesce in possession of that thing. And if you go back to the Battleship and she figures it out, if she tries to put your shard together with that shard—”  
  
“It’s too huge of a risk. She would never do that.”  
  
“The empress is the kind of troll who would nuke a planet just to see the shape of the mushroom cloud,” says Aradia. You never spent much time with her during the Game, but right now she is frantic and desperate and crackling with psychic energy that you can feel prickling at your skin. You don’t think this is normal for her.  
  
You think about what you just saw. You think about the consequences.  
  
If you return, if you let the Condesce get her hands on the shard within you, it could mean the end of absolutely everything. You don’t know what she would do with the power, but you know that the insurgents (that Kanaya) would never forgive you.  
  
But every moment you stay away, the deal you made to spare Earth comes one step closer to being annulled.  
  
“You know,” says Aradia. “There’s a chance that we could spin this in our favor. This might be able to turn the tide.”  
  
“Oh, please,” you scoff. “That’s highly unlikely.”  
  
“I thought you were a specialist in unlikely?”  
  
“Glib phrasing won’t make me change my mind.”  
  
“Don’t be stupid. You already changed your mind. You just don’t want to admit it.”  
  
You really dislike the fact that she’s correct. She’s not even trying to be smug, and it’s still unbearable. The icy wind doesn’t cut quite as sharply as that.  
  
Fuck it. Looks like you’re doing this now.  
  
You grit your teeth. “If I won’t be coming back, I still need somewhere to go.”  
  
Aradia smiles. “Well, we know of one place where we’ll be welcome, don’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't promise a consistent update schedule, but i have more free time at the moment than i have in a long time, so the chances of me producing another chapter soon are at least somewhat optimistic.
> 
> thank you to everyone who commented on this fic even though i haven't posted new content in a while. it's what keeps me motivated to keep writing even when time/energy is hard to come by.


End file.
